14th of Culminations through 19th of Culminations, in the fifth year of the reign of House Redwater, on Alshain Magna and Al Niyat
Marcus Laurent, staring at the desk-screen in blind panic, knew that he did not, in fact, cause the crash. That whether or not he was there, the crash had far more significant causes than a barely-noticed change of who the head of a still-small-and-growing House's Mercantile section was. That didn't stop the blame coming to him from all sides--and from inside himself.
It couldn't be a coincidence, could it, that Vincent left and things fell apart? Sure, Vincent hadn't been pleasant to work with, but most of the people were used to him, and Marcus sometimes felt as if he were made of knives, cutting and cutting everyone around him. How had Salamah trusted him, why had he trusted him? Didn't Salamah know that Marcus would be crushed by this!
He slumped in the comfy seat of the interplanetary transport that was taking him to Al Niyat for an emergency meeting.
Several minor local parties had been revealed as double-dealing and corrupt and that, combined with a scandal involving a false plague scare. And there was the simple fact that the boom that had started five months before was entirely unsustainable. Hundreds of thousands were out of work already. And it was going to get worse long before it got better. The prosperity had led to rising prices, and dozens of unions across the planet had gone on strike at the beginning of Culminations, demanding a cost-of-living adjustment to match the growing economy. And then, just as suddenly, even their current pay wouldn't be afforded. That would be a few hundred thousand more, probably. Then there were the riots, and the disasterous interview with Senator Herrin, who had been her usual charming self.
And then there was that eruption...
It was a mess, and looking down at the notes, at the way the profits had dropped through the floor, he knew there were no simple solutions.
*****
"We can still save it," said the Chairman of the Al Niyat Art Institute, "And we can also save the Narcotics division," he said, nodding at his colleague, "If we just cut a few things here and there...the contracts for next year are already submitted for finalization...there's nothing the shippers and workers could do to stop us from cutting their benefits, a bit, and they'd still have their jobs..."
Marcus, who had been having this conversation for the past four hours, groaned and said, "No. We close down the art institute, we let everyone go with full benefits and a months salary and--"
When Salamah made decisions like that, everyone started nodding in agreement or acceptance. Here, they all started yelling at once. The conference room was filled with twenty people, and suddenly nineteen of them were yelling at the bewildered twentieth man, or thrusting holo-plans in his face, filled with ideas of how to make it all work without having to really change anything. It washed over him as he trembled, seeming to shrink in his seat.
Finally, after a dozen more minutes he shook his head, "We are closing down the Narcotics trade, but not the facility. The Al-Niyat art institute is also going down, and if anyone doesn't like it, they can quit!"
He hadn't expected anyone to actually quit, let alone half of the directors, leaving him alone with eight other resentful men and women. "What are we going to replace all of that lost revenue with?" The Narcotics trade had been making a slim profit, unlike the art industry.
Marcus felt ill. Not only had he lost half of the planet's top people, but his brother had relied on the art institute as a funnel for pieces into his soon-to-be opened Museum, and the name of the Institute had already been printed up--with fully three-dimensional advertising--in all of the programs for the opening ceremonies, only twenty-one days off. It sounded like a lot of time, but it wasn't, really. "We're..." he trailed off, groaning. He hated hard work, but at this point, nothing but it was going to salvage a damn thing. "Get me everything you have on the current economy, and all the records from all the trades we've made on Al Niyat and I'll...I'll figure something out," he said without much confidence.
*******
24th of Culminations through the 26th of Culminations, in the 5th year of the reign of Yale Redwater, Al Niyat
Marcus had forgotten how good booze tasted. It wasn't of any recognizable vintage, but he hoped it would fortify him for the (luckily one-way) message he was going to send Salamah. Since it would taken a few hours to go through the transmission queue and get there, that would give him an excuse to avoid hearing a reply right away, especially since he was already tipsy by the time he pushed play.
He outlined his situation hotly, annoyance clear in his voice, and summarized all that he'd learned: a damn lot of information, inferences and ideas, but most of it useless, and then moved to get out of the way the most important matter in order to get to what he was really looking forward to...yelling at Salamah from a safe distance with no way for the Duke to reply back...at least not yet.
He'd determined that some, but not all, of the money might be made up in a slightly off-kilter field. Luxury items and goods. It wasn't what one would expect considering the crash, but those who had emerged untouched suddenly wanted to show it off, and Laurent Trading could be the supplier to all the companies and groups whose target demographic was out-of-touch-rich-idiots. The profits wouldn't be amazing, but they'd keep what remained of the Al Niyat business afloat.
"But," he said, chugging some more, spilling it all over his already-dirty shirt, his eyes as red as a gaping wound, "I shouldn't have to do this shit, you asshole! I shouldn't be here in this..."
He ranted on and on for a full hour, ending it with, "And I'm not sorry, and I hate you, and I would have been better off if you had just left me back on Canopus!"
Four hours later, almost sober, and having had to be bailed out--after punching a bystander in the head--by one of his subordinates, he was starting to regret what he'd said. He checked to see whether there was a response.
The next day passed, no response.
And then on the twenty-sixth the message was, "I have received your communication," Salamah said without a hint of emotion one way or another, "Note you will not be allowed back into the compound drunk. Have a good trip."
Angrily, Marcus reached for the hooch.
***********
24th of Culminations through the 26th of Culminations, in the fifth year of the reign of House Redwater, Alshain Magna
Salamah stared at the wall, and reached for the wine, taking a carefully small sip. He wanted to fire back with angry words, or...or something, and the fact that this was his first hot instinct meant it was no doubt the wrong reaction.
So he took out the date Marcus had sent, and began to marvel. A thousand implications, ideas, suggestions, not all of them good, and none of them huge on their own, leapt into life. The mining industry on Al Niyat had been battered horribly by the crash, even though, already, there were signs that the economy was beginning to pick itself up. He could scoop. up facilities on the cheap, use easy-bought data to all but find directions to untapped and somewhat undiscovered veins. There was wealth in that volcanic world.
And the fact that Al Niyat wasn't actually having a love affair with its Senator might be just a brief problem, nothing important, or it could be a way in. And the decision to switch to luxuries had been an inspired one, really.
And yet that rant, and the way...
He called his wife, and she picked up. Her smile faded into nothing at his face, and Salamah said, bluntly, "Marcus is cracking and breaking. If he is torn to pieces by this," he promised, "There will be consequences. Dire ones." He checked that the connection is secure, "I am fully willing to destroy any cancerous, harmful entity that is tearing my family apart. I will not hold back, and I have long learned that mercy is a strength best cultivated by the well-bred." He looked deep into where her eyes would be, his face hard and without the least semblance of mercy.
She had suddenly realized that not only would he go through with it, he wouldn't hesitate for a moment. She cut the connection with a nod, looking sick, and drained.
And then he spent a long time trying to figure out what to say.
In the end, he couldn't find the words, so simply said.
"I have received your communication," and here he had to fight to keep the tears, the shouts, the emotion from his face. He could hardly stand it. "Note you will not be allowed back into the compound drunk. Have a good trip." He couldn't find any other words and, in desperation, he shut it off, tried again a dozen more times, and each was worst than the last. Finally, realizing he'd already stalled for two days, he sent off the first, and put his head in his hands.
Cast:
Marcus Laurent, 38: The alcoholic brother of Salamah Laurent, suddenly thrust into a role he was entirely unprepared for, Head of the Mercantile arm of the Laurent family.
Salamah Laurent, 50: A man who loves his brother, and cannot say it, hates his wife, and will not say it, and despises fools, and should not say it.
Jamilla Laurent, 57: Salamah's wife. Her well meaning attempt to help Marcus seems to have gone wrong, as evidenced by her realisation that she is married to a man who would murder her if her accidents, however intentional, led to Marcus' self-destruction.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Pilgrim's Progress
13th of Culminations, in the 5th year of the Reign of Yale Redwater, Alshain Magna
Salamah had given Vincent a truly staggering amount of latitude in deveoloping the trading businesses, and that included facilities. Vincent had an entire wing of the expanded 'womb' his to control as lord-and-master.
For some reason known only to him, he preferred it practically frozen. Salamah had on short sleeves, and it was a stretch of his acting abilities to pretend he wasn't entirely miserable. His body was unaugmented, and it was only his will that kept him from shivering. He moved with a purpose, past peons scurrying to-and-fro, going about their business. They moved out of the way, as a minnow keeps away from the sharks. And like a shark, Salamah was not interested in taking a bite out of such meagre prey.
He pressed his palm against the door scanner, and stepped into a clean, sleek room containing half-a-dozen people in star-patterned Sathraist robes, and at their center playing with the incredibly expensive computer-table (it could hold the equivilent of a million books worth of data easily, record conversations, analyze patterns, it was wasted on Vincent, perhaps, but useful) was the Head of Mercantile himself. He looked less rumpled than usual, and he seemed to have even bathed. How had Salamah known that it was that damn Sathraism, again?
His eyes though, looked as weary as Salamah felt. "Hello, your Grace," he said, distractedly.
"You requested to speak to me?" Salamah asked carefully, his voice level. It wasn't a request, but a demand, worded as rudely as possible--but he knew that Vincent wouldn't understand this.
"Yes, yes. I figured you'd need to pick someone," Vincent said, pressing something and sending up a holographic picture of Chara for a moment. Chara, the heart of Sathraism, where the Great Nexu of the Void was, Chara, a crime ridden, hot, dry world where 1/3rd of its population practiced Sathraism. The perfect world for a religion of the stars to come into being, perhaps, Salamah had thought with cynicism, because there was nothing worth looking at on the planet, so why not the stars?
"Pick someone for what?"
"To temporarily replace me. I'm going on a Pilgrimage, it's part of continuing up the ranks..."
"You just became a Captain," Salamah said, his pulse pounding, resisting yelling, "And you have work to do. You can't leave, not now, not for..."
"Four months at least, probably more..."
Salamah stared at him, "I'll disown you..."
"You can't and won't, Your Grace. Your wife told me so in a conversation we had via hologram" he said earnestly. "Now, you should pick someone to replace me. And a transport..."
**********
"You lying..." he growled, his face entirely without pretense, "You lying...how dare you?!" He was yelling into the hologram, talking to his wife as if she was there...except if she was there the temptation for attempted murder would have been even stronger.
"What is it dear?"
"You know! You talked to Vincent and suddenly he feels it is okay to run off and do his bullshit religion thing," he was so angry he wasn't even being polite about it. He had nothing against Sathraism in particular, except that it was a religion, and he had no time for those. "Suddenly he wants me to put Marcus in control, just as we'll finally opening up Al Niyat! And you helped him...again! Explain yourself."
She looked at him, seeming almost pleased by his reaction, "Marcus needs this."
"So this is about Marcus, not about the business?"
"It is about both. Marcus might be sometimes lazy, and not Prince-charming, but he has more ability than you give him credit for, and he's sharp and bright."
"And a horrible alcoholic that has only stayed sober for a year because we don't give him the chance to change that."
"He deserves a chance. I think the responsiblity will be good for him."
"It will crush him," Salamah stated.
Jamilla stared at him for a long time before smiling, "You really do love him."
"Yes, he is family," Salamah said impatiently.
"No, not like that. If a random cousin showed up, you'd treat them well, maybe even love them...but you've known Marcus for decades, you all but raised him, if my sources are correct...you need to stop coddling him: he had too long of a childhood, and suddenly he was eighteen and he had to marry and become an adult."
"It will crush him," Salamah repeated. "He won't be able to stand it and I will not have my brother self-destructing again. I can't lose him," he finally admitted, "Not now, not after we've gone so far. Not like I lost Aaqilah." He felt raw, vulnerable, and tired, and more than anything he wanted her to stop, to stop pressing, and stop knowing him.
He wanted her to know nothing about him, and yet here she was...
"You didn't lose her. She lost herself. She made her choices, and they ended the way they ended. It was her fault, and you should stop blaming yourself."
"She was right," Salamah said quietly, "When she accused me of being a coward unable to stand up for what I belived she was...then...right." It was painful, and he stopped, pausing and saying, "He can't handle it."
"If he can't handle it, then he never will. Marcus will do fine, it's not as if he has to start up a whole new business. There is a stable core of business, and there is a lot of room for expansion in Al Niyat, he'll be fine."
And so Salamah lost, and Vincent left, and Marcus became Head of Mercantile.
Four days later, the economy of Al Niyat collapsed in the span of hours.
Cast
Vincent Laurent, 38: A Captain of the Faith of Sathraism, he is going on a long pilgrimage of meditation and contemplation, leaving everyone else to desperately scramble to deal with his sudden departure. There is a reason his faith has to do with stars, and not other people, or basic courtesy.
Duke Salamah Laurent, 50: A man who cannot save anyone, no matter how hard he tries.
Jamilla Laurent, 57: Salamah's hated wife, who knows him far too well for his own comfort.
Marcus Laurent, 39: Salamah's kid brother, raised by Salamah since Marcus was only one, he is a (not at all recovering) Alcoholic who lies around the house all day serving no function except to exist as Salamah's brother, and a reminder of his past.
Salamah had given Vincent a truly staggering amount of latitude in deveoloping the trading businesses, and that included facilities. Vincent had an entire wing of the expanded 'womb' his to control as lord-and-master.
For some reason known only to him, he preferred it practically frozen. Salamah had on short sleeves, and it was a stretch of his acting abilities to pretend he wasn't entirely miserable. His body was unaugmented, and it was only his will that kept him from shivering. He moved with a purpose, past peons scurrying to-and-fro, going about their business. They moved out of the way, as a minnow keeps away from the sharks. And like a shark, Salamah was not interested in taking a bite out of such meagre prey.
He pressed his palm against the door scanner, and stepped into a clean, sleek room containing half-a-dozen people in star-patterned Sathraist robes, and at their center playing with the incredibly expensive computer-table (it could hold the equivilent of a million books worth of data easily, record conversations, analyze patterns, it was wasted on Vincent, perhaps, but useful) was the Head of Mercantile himself. He looked less rumpled than usual, and he seemed to have even bathed. How had Salamah known that it was that damn Sathraism, again?
His eyes though, looked as weary as Salamah felt. "Hello, your Grace," he said, distractedly.
"You requested to speak to me?" Salamah asked carefully, his voice level. It wasn't a request, but a demand, worded as rudely as possible--but he knew that Vincent wouldn't understand this.
"Yes, yes. I figured you'd need to pick someone," Vincent said, pressing something and sending up a holographic picture of Chara for a moment. Chara, the heart of Sathraism, where the Great Nexu of the Void was, Chara, a crime ridden, hot, dry world where 1/3rd of its population practiced Sathraism. The perfect world for a religion of the stars to come into being, perhaps, Salamah had thought with cynicism, because there was nothing worth looking at on the planet, so why not the stars?
"Pick someone for what?"
"To temporarily replace me. I'm going on a Pilgrimage, it's part of continuing up the ranks..."
"You just became a Captain," Salamah said, his pulse pounding, resisting yelling, "And you have work to do. You can't leave, not now, not for..."
"Four months at least, probably more..."
Salamah stared at him, "I'll disown you..."
"You can't and won't, Your Grace. Your wife told me so in a conversation we had via hologram" he said earnestly. "Now, you should pick someone to replace me. And a transport..."
**********
"You lying..." he growled, his face entirely without pretense, "You lying...how dare you?!" He was yelling into the hologram, talking to his wife as if she was there...except if she was there the temptation for attempted murder would have been even stronger.
"What is it dear?"
"You know! You talked to Vincent and suddenly he feels it is okay to run off and do his bullshit religion thing," he was so angry he wasn't even being polite about it. He had nothing against Sathraism in particular, except that it was a religion, and he had no time for those. "Suddenly he wants me to put Marcus in control, just as we'll finally opening up Al Niyat! And you helped him...again! Explain yourself."
She looked at him, seeming almost pleased by his reaction, "Marcus needs this."
"So this is about Marcus, not about the business?"
"It is about both. Marcus might be sometimes lazy, and not Prince-charming, but he has more ability than you give him credit for, and he's sharp and bright."
"And a horrible alcoholic that has only stayed sober for a year because we don't give him the chance to change that."
"He deserves a chance. I think the responsiblity will be good for him."
"It will crush him," Salamah stated.
Jamilla stared at him for a long time before smiling, "You really do love him."
"Yes, he is family," Salamah said impatiently.
"No, not like that. If a random cousin showed up, you'd treat them well, maybe even love them...but you've known Marcus for decades, you all but raised him, if my sources are correct...you need to stop coddling him: he had too long of a childhood, and suddenly he was eighteen and he had to marry and become an adult."
"It will crush him," Salamah repeated. "He won't be able to stand it and I will not have my brother self-destructing again. I can't lose him," he finally admitted, "Not now, not after we've gone so far. Not like I lost Aaqilah." He felt raw, vulnerable, and tired, and more than anything he wanted her to stop, to stop pressing, and stop knowing him.
He wanted her to know nothing about him, and yet here she was...
"You didn't lose her. She lost herself. She made her choices, and they ended the way they ended. It was her fault, and you should stop blaming yourself."
"She was right," Salamah said quietly, "When she accused me of being a coward unable to stand up for what I belived she was...then...right." It was painful, and he stopped, pausing and saying, "He can't handle it."
"If he can't handle it, then he never will. Marcus will do fine, it's not as if he has to start up a whole new business. There is a stable core of business, and there is a lot of room for expansion in Al Niyat, he'll be fine."
And so Salamah lost, and Vincent left, and Marcus became Head of Mercantile.
Four days later, the economy of Al Niyat collapsed in the span of hours.
Cast
Vincent Laurent, 38: A Captain of the Faith of Sathraism, he is going on a long pilgrimage of meditation and contemplation, leaving everyone else to desperately scramble to deal with his sudden departure. There is a reason his faith has to do with stars, and not other people, or basic courtesy.
Duke Salamah Laurent, 50: A man who cannot save anyone, no matter how hard he tries.
Jamilla Laurent, 57: Salamah's hated wife, who knows him far too well for his own comfort.
Marcus Laurent, 39: Salamah's kid brother, raised by Salamah since Marcus was only one, he is a (not at all recovering) Alcoholic who lies around the house all day serving no function except to exist as Salamah's brother, and a reminder of his past.
Friday, July 5, 2013
Art Work
11th of Culminations in the 5th Year of the Reign of Yale Redwater, on Circe
Anything can feel like work if one does it long enough. When Salamah had come up with the bright idea of creating an Art Gallery open to anyone, that taught all sorts of lessons, and was state of the art...when that idea had come up, it was during a particularly whimsical moment. He had been playing with his son...
****
Omar's eyes had a liquid intensity to them that was, he felt, the best combination of parental traits. He was a small, thin, lovely boy, currently drawing a picture on the Picture-Pad, a rather expensive bit of whimsy, but one he was entirely worthy of. Salamah smiled, sitting next to the boy, his clothes mussed up from a tussle and a chase. Salamah had been it.
His smile was entirely without pretense and artifice, and he looked at the boy and for a moment he felt a sudden connection to all boys. He hadn't had a Picture-Pad...he loved and appreciated art, but even had he possessed the talents to be the next great artist, no miner's son was going to have the time for that...so, was there value in such opportunities.
And he needed a reputation. Ideas began to form, and though he tried not to be, he was a bit distant with his son over the next hour. He'd have to make that up.
****
Some things had even begun to seem to be falling in place on their own. Vincent, whose profits were projected to be fourteen-thousand Solars by the end of the month, had recently opened a brisk, if somewhat marginal art-trade between Pollux and Al Niyat. Besides his own purchases, he was able to filter out the best pieces for his gallery. Choosing was difficult, but it was managable. Buying all the pieces felt so very decadent. By the time he was ready to start choosing the pieces to try to string them together into a bunch of themes, he had spent more Solars than he had ever, prior to becoming a Noble, ever had at one time, and without even coming close to bankrupting him.
But when it came time to choose how to lay out the gallery with his wife, who would also be on the Board of Directors (a total of five people) to help ensure control. Plus, of course, it would give his wife something to do. And Jamilla, like Salamah, was said to have a very good taste in art.
Naively, optimistically, he had figured they would be done within a few days at the most. And then all that would be left would be to prepare for the opening day which, symbolically, was going to be the 1st of Origins, though the facility would be fully done some time before that.
****
As the second week of working on it was only hours away, they bickered. Sure, they both had complex and interesting tastes in artwork, but they were very different. Salamah's was more wacky, esoteric, off the cuff, things he liked, many of which--the dancing, the games, the interactive installations--were not what Jamilla, with a far more refined, traditional taste. And wasn't afraid to press it.
"One holographic display of far-northern Ritual Dance is more than enough. It'll already fill up an entire room..."
"I could put it in the same room, and have them alternate," he suggested as a compromise.
"Acceptable, though, really, it's not the best..."
"The numbers were ran, some of this stuff is really popular. What are we going to do as far as the paintings go? You picked far too many..."
"Not enough, I'd say," she said, all of her love for him buried beneath her desire to make the gallery exactly what she wanted. "If only we hadn't been outbid for..."
"It was crud and you know it, a third rate work by a second-rate artist," he said, his lack of sleep--he hadn't slept in days--finally breaking his resolve to politeness.
****
In the end, it had not only taken a full month, but he had been forced by a call from Vincent, claiming important news to announce, to continue his work through proxies and vid-screens, allowing her to have more influence on it than he did. What he thought at the time, was that Vincent better have a good reason for drawing him away from this.
As it turned out, Art was a lot of work.
Cast
Duke Salamah Laurent, age 50: Duke of House Laurent, and a lover of funny, eclectic, off-the-wall art. His tastes were honed over many years on his own.
Jamilla Laurent, age 57: Her tastes are refined and polished, cleaned up and created by her parents, teachers, and so on like one might polish a diamond.
Anything can feel like work if one does it long enough. When Salamah had come up with the bright idea of creating an Art Gallery open to anyone, that taught all sorts of lessons, and was state of the art...when that idea had come up, it was during a particularly whimsical moment. He had been playing with his son...
****
Omar's eyes had a liquid intensity to them that was, he felt, the best combination of parental traits. He was a small, thin, lovely boy, currently drawing a picture on the Picture-Pad, a rather expensive bit of whimsy, but one he was entirely worthy of. Salamah smiled, sitting next to the boy, his clothes mussed up from a tussle and a chase. Salamah had been it.
His smile was entirely without pretense and artifice, and he looked at the boy and for a moment he felt a sudden connection to all boys. He hadn't had a Picture-Pad...he loved and appreciated art, but even had he possessed the talents to be the next great artist, no miner's son was going to have the time for that...so, was there value in such opportunities.
And he needed a reputation. Ideas began to form, and though he tried not to be, he was a bit distant with his son over the next hour. He'd have to make that up.
****
Some things had even begun to seem to be falling in place on their own. Vincent, whose profits were projected to be fourteen-thousand Solars by the end of the month, had recently opened a brisk, if somewhat marginal art-trade between Pollux and Al Niyat. Besides his own purchases, he was able to filter out the best pieces for his gallery. Choosing was difficult, but it was managable. Buying all the pieces felt so very decadent. By the time he was ready to start choosing the pieces to try to string them together into a bunch of themes, he had spent more Solars than he had ever, prior to becoming a Noble, ever had at one time, and without even coming close to bankrupting him.
But when it came time to choose how to lay out the gallery with his wife, who would also be on the Board of Directors (a total of five people) to help ensure control. Plus, of course, it would give his wife something to do. And Jamilla, like Salamah, was said to have a very good taste in art.
Naively, optimistically, he had figured they would be done within a few days at the most. And then all that would be left would be to prepare for the opening day which, symbolically, was going to be the 1st of Origins, though the facility would be fully done some time before that.
****
As the second week of working on it was only hours away, they bickered. Sure, they both had complex and interesting tastes in artwork, but they were very different. Salamah's was more wacky, esoteric, off the cuff, things he liked, many of which--the dancing, the games, the interactive installations--were not what Jamilla, with a far more refined, traditional taste. And wasn't afraid to press it.
"One holographic display of far-northern Ritual Dance is more than enough. It'll already fill up an entire room..."
"I could put it in the same room, and have them alternate," he suggested as a compromise.
"Acceptable, though, really, it's not the best..."
"The numbers were ran, some of this stuff is really popular. What are we going to do as far as the paintings go? You picked far too many..."
"Not enough, I'd say," she said, all of her love for him buried beneath her desire to make the gallery exactly what she wanted. "If only we hadn't been outbid for..."
"It was crud and you know it, a third rate work by a second-rate artist," he said, his lack of sleep--he hadn't slept in days--finally breaking his resolve to politeness.
****
In the end, it had not only taken a full month, but he had been forced by a call from Vincent, claiming important news to announce, to continue his work through proxies and vid-screens, allowing her to have more influence on it than he did. What he thought at the time, was that Vincent better have a good reason for drawing him away from this.
As it turned out, Art was a lot of work.
Cast
Duke Salamah Laurent, age 50: Duke of House Laurent, and a lover of funny, eclectic, off-the-wall art. His tastes were honed over many years on his own.
Jamilla Laurent, age 57: Her tastes are refined and polished, cleaned up and created by her parents, teachers, and so on like one might polish a diamond.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Twenty Thousand Days Under the Lash
Late Resolve in the 5th year of the Reign of Yale Redwater, On Alshain Magna
His birthday had come and gone without him realizing until days afterwards. By all standards, it was even a significant day. He was fifty years old, and that was supposed to mean something. He felt no different, no older, no weaker than he was before, or perhaps he was deluding himself on that point.
Twenty thousand days he had spent in this Galaxy, and the celebration of the completion of a 400-day cycle of them did not seem all that important. Perhaps it was because of all of those milestones that were supposed to be associated with ages, he had experienced none of them. He had walked and talked some time before the designated ages, had never believed that girls had a made-up infectious disease transmitted through contact, had barely noticed puberty amid the roil of a thousand problems, had sex not at sixteen, or eighteen, but at thirteen. Voted far before he was of age, drank before then too, ran a business, emancipated himself, murdered people long before one was allowed to join an army and do it, went to college and finished it in a headlong rush. He hadn't gone through a mid-life crisis, unless it was waiting to sneak up on him, and he was gongn to live to be a hundred.
He had seen no need to celebrate, because one day hardly added anything to the pain, the suffering, the triumph of his days piled upon another until he thought their tail would become unmanagable, as if he were a bride at a too-formal wedding, dragging around a dress train far too long to move with.
And so, with great finality he had refused all celebrations and drank a glass of the best port, and done nothing else.
He didn't know whether he wondered, or merely dreaded, where tomorrow would find him.
Salamah went to sleep early that night, too tired of being awake to stay up.
His birthday had come and gone without him realizing until days afterwards. By all standards, it was even a significant day. He was fifty years old, and that was supposed to mean something. He felt no different, no older, no weaker than he was before, or perhaps he was deluding himself on that point.
Twenty thousand days he had spent in this Galaxy, and the celebration of the completion of a 400-day cycle of them did not seem all that important. Perhaps it was because of all of those milestones that were supposed to be associated with ages, he had experienced none of them. He had walked and talked some time before the designated ages, had never believed that girls had a made-up infectious disease transmitted through contact, had barely noticed puberty amid the roil of a thousand problems, had sex not at sixteen, or eighteen, but at thirteen. Voted far before he was of age, drank before then too, ran a business, emancipated himself, murdered people long before one was allowed to join an army and do it, went to college and finished it in a headlong rush. He hadn't gone through a mid-life crisis, unless it was waiting to sneak up on him, and he was gongn to live to be a hundred.
He had seen no need to celebrate, because one day hardly added anything to the pain, the suffering, the triumph of his days piled upon another until he thought their tail would become unmanagable, as if he were a bride at a too-formal wedding, dragging around a dress train far too long to move with.
And so, with great finality he had refused all celebrations and drank a glass of the best port, and done nothing else.
He didn't know whether he wondered, or merely dreaded, where tomorrow would find him.
Salamah went to sleep early that night, too tired of being awake to stay up.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Troubled Waters
19th of Resolve, in the 5th year of the Reign of Yale Redwater, Alshain Magna
Jamilla Laurent looked at her husband, settling into her grav-chair as he ate his eggs in silence, a slight smile tugging against his lips. Jamilla had fallen in love with Salamah a dozen times, and she figured that smile had been a part of every single one of them. She loved her husband, wildly, madly, and that smile, a bit smug, but also confident, and (mostly) unplanned, it was one of the things she loved about him.
Of course, to love was not to claim perfection, and on her worst days she began to see how, when faced with the world, Marcus had crawled into a bottle. On her worst days she loved him the way he loved most of his family: out of a sort of resigned acceptance that this was the way things were, and that no matter how he feels about them he also loves them. On other days, of course, loving him was far easier, far less painful.
What she didn't understand is why he didn't love her back--or, why, when she sat down and allowed herself the rare opportunity of telling herself the truth, that was the conclusion she came to. Many days, of course, she could delude herself long enough to love him as a being with few faults, if any.
But he was so closed off, beneath his charm. His childhood, his family, his sister, his home-planet, she had learned to negotiate a mine-field of topics that would cause him to close up, to retreat behind formalities.
And she knew he had cheated not all that long ago. What else could explain the surprise visit to Circe, could explain the messages her spies had carefully reconstructed about a meeting with "Charlie." She wondered what such a woman had that she didn't--because, not to be too vain, she was intelligent, well-bred, had a first-class education and, by the standardized definitions, she was beautiful. Was it her pale skin, was there some feature he didn't like, or some part of her personality that repelled him?
Jamilla understood that love was a complex thing, that often one had no choice in that matter, and she could even accept with a tearing heart that he didn't love her. What baffled her was that he wasn't even attracted to her, at least, he didn't seem to be all that often. In the heat of the moment, perhaps she told herself that the sex meant lust, or pretended to believe the lust might be a symptom of love, but as often enough she allowed herself to be distracted and played with by her desire for Salamah's body not because she was a fool, but because she was desperate and lonely and loved him and wanted him even if it wasn't the way she wanted to want him.
All of this was the context by which she decided, that blustery and cold--did Alshain Magna not have a blustery, cold day, not that it mattered, enmeshed as they were in their womb of a home--morning, to ask him, "Honey, what are you doing?"
He looked up and said, "Attempting to check all the available men of the right bloodline. I have had enough of Audrey, and at this point I'd marry her to a homeless bum...if he'd treat her right," he amended, since he didn't want to wish misery on any of his family. "Perhaps one of my courtier friends..."
"No! She is to marry into Nobility, or not at all," Jamilla insisted, "Trust me, I know them, those so called former friends of yours, and they are like sharks, they'll latch onto her, destroy you, and benefit nobody."
"They'd just marry her and discard her for her name, her position..." she trailed off, Salamah looking at her bizarrely, as if he was confused. He touched her shoulder, and she found she was nearly crying. Crying because was he really all that different from them, then, was he?
After a moment, he stood, and, after leaning in to speak some words to her ears only, left, unable to bear it. She stared at the data-sheet.
He had whispered, ever so quietly, "I don't want to despise you, I didn't mean..."
Sometimes the right words just wouldn't come.
Jamilla Laurent looked at her husband, settling into her grav-chair as he ate his eggs in silence, a slight smile tugging against his lips. Jamilla had fallen in love with Salamah a dozen times, and she figured that smile had been a part of every single one of them. She loved her husband, wildly, madly, and that smile, a bit smug, but also confident, and (mostly) unplanned, it was one of the things she loved about him.
Of course, to love was not to claim perfection, and on her worst days she began to see how, when faced with the world, Marcus had crawled into a bottle. On her worst days she loved him the way he loved most of his family: out of a sort of resigned acceptance that this was the way things were, and that no matter how he feels about them he also loves them. On other days, of course, loving him was far easier, far less painful.
What she didn't understand is why he didn't love her back--or, why, when she sat down and allowed herself the rare opportunity of telling herself the truth, that was the conclusion she came to. Many days, of course, she could delude herself long enough to love him as a being with few faults, if any.
But he was so closed off, beneath his charm. His childhood, his family, his sister, his home-planet, she had learned to negotiate a mine-field of topics that would cause him to close up, to retreat behind formalities.
And she knew he had cheated not all that long ago. What else could explain the surprise visit to Circe, could explain the messages her spies had carefully reconstructed about a meeting with "Charlie." She wondered what such a woman had that she didn't--because, not to be too vain, she was intelligent, well-bred, had a first-class education and, by the standardized definitions, she was beautiful. Was it her pale skin, was there some feature he didn't like, or some part of her personality that repelled him?
Jamilla understood that love was a complex thing, that often one had no choice in that matter, and she could even accept with a tearing heart that he didn't love her. What baffled her was that he wasn't even attracted to her, at least, he didn't seem to be all that often. In the heat of the moment, perhaps she told herself that the sex meant lust, or pretended to believe the lust might be a symptom of love, but as often enough she allowed herself to be distracted and played with by her desire for Salamah's body not because she was a fool, but because she was desperate and lonely and loved him and wanted him even if it wasn't the way she wanted to want him.
All of this was the context by which she decided, that blustery and cold--did Alshain Magna not have a blustery, cold day, not that it mattered, enmeshed as they were in their womb of a home--morning, to ask him, "Honey, what are you doing?"
He looked up and said, "Attempting to check all the available men of the right bloodline. I have had enough of Audrey, and at this point I'd marry her to a homeless bum...if he'd treat her right," he amended, since he didn't want to wish misery on any of his family. "Perhaps one of my courtier friends..."
"No! She is to marry into Nobility, or not at all," Jamilla insisted, "Trust me, I know them, those so called former friends of yours, and they are like sharks, they'll latch onto her, destroy you, and benefit nobody."
"They'd just marry her and discard her for her name, her position..." she trailed off, Salamah looking at her bizarrely, as if he was confused. He touched her shoulder, and she found she was nearly crying. Crying because was he really all that different from them, then, was he?
After a moment, he stood, and, after leaning in to speak some words to her ears only, left, unable to bear it. She stared at the data-sheet.
He had whispered, ever so quietly, "I don't want to despise you, I didn't mean..."
Sometimes the right words just wouldn't come.
Monday, June 24, 2013
Visualize Your Future Wealth Potential
25th of Faith, in the 5th Year of the Reign of Yale Redwater, back on Alshain Magna
It was a remarkable human capacity, the ability for individual happiness to pop like soap bubbles. Just a few weeks before he had been among the Houses of the Galaxy, eyes aimed at the next election, at power, and despite some problems it had gone more well than ill, and he now had two new allies, though these were bonds that could be strengthened.
He had a niece, perhaps he could find a marriage for her...and he was making more money. There were a million paths open to her now, if only she could use them. If only he didn't have to deal with bullshit. He looked up, his smile pleasant at Vincent, as unkempt as ever, and asking HIM for money. He had a thousand things he could spend the 25,000 Solars on, let alone the profits the mines were starting to bring in. Even if it didn't take money to make more money, he could donate it to a thousand causes he would view more worthy than the religion of 'Sathraism.'
"So, uh, Your Grace, what do you say?"
"Why," Salamah said in his even voice, "Do you not spend your own money?"
"What do you mean."
Salamah smiled and said, "If you can think of a profitable business-plan in whatever field you wish, I will give you the money, incorporate you under me, and allow you to put a certain portion towards your religious...goals."
It was that simple. Either Vincent backed down, and at least that was done with, or he made Salamah a lot of money and was actually useful, after all.
Vincent seemed sobered but said, "I think there are some bulk-trades that might make some profits...not a massive amount, the southern area, it's..." he shook his head, "I-I'll do it," he coughed on the table and said, "Ugh...sorry, been feeling off, think I caught a bug. But..." his eyes alit and for a moment he was almost compelling, "A chance to see the stars, the galaxy, and make money to help Sathraism. I might even start some Missions."
"Missions?"
"To spread the word, but only if this only works out!"
Salamah stared at him. He smelled like he had forgotten to bathe. Vincent did that sometimes. Well, what could he say, "If you get me the proposal, I'll look through it, and sign it."
He was as good as his word, and so was Vincent. Like his cousin or not, they were family, and Vincent was a smart man--when he wasn't pissing everyone off.
Cast:
Duke Salamah Laurent, age 49: The exasperated if polite head of the Laurent family, his ethos of "family first" is often frustrated by his dislike of so many members of his family, though he'd never show it, he's too socially cued-in.
Vincent Laurent, age 37: The enthusiastic, often unwashed, somewhat unattractive Cousin of Salamah, he found the Faith of Sathraism and has tried to convert everyone he's met to it--and failed. He is now the head of Mercantile.
It was a remarkable human capacity, the ability for individual happiness to pop like soap bubbles. Just a few weeks before he had been among the Houses of the Galaxy, eyes aimed at the next election, at power, and despite some problems it had gone more well than ill, and he now had two new allies, though these were bonds that could be strengthened.
He had a niece, perhaps he could find a marriage for her...and he was making more money. There were a million paths open to her now, if only she could use them. If only he didn't have to deal with bullshit. He looked up, his smile pleasant at Vincent, as unkempt as ever, and asking HIM for money. He had a thousand things he could spend the 25,000 Solars on, let alone the profits the mines were starting to bring in. Even if it didn't take money to make more money, he could donate it to a thousand causes he would view more worthy than the religion of 'Sathraism.'
"So, uh, Your Grace, what do you say?"
"Why," Salamah said in his even voice, "Do you not spend your own money?"
"What do you mean."
Salamah smiled and said, "If you can think of a profitable business-plan in whatever field you wish, I will give you the money, incorporate you under me, and allow you to put a certain portion towards your religious...goals."
It was that simple. Either Vincent backed down, and at least that was done with, or he made Salamah a lot of money and was actually useful, after all.
Vincent seemed sobered but said, "I think there are some bulk-trades that might make some profits...not a massive amount, the southern area, it's..." he shook his head, "I-I'll do it," he coughed on the table and said, "Ugh...sorry, been feeling off, think I caught a bug. But..." his eyes alit and for a moment he was almost compelling, "A chance to see the stars, the galaxy, and make money to help Sathraism. I might even start some Missions."
"Missions?"
"To spread the word, but only if this only works out!"
Salamah stared at him. He smelled like he had forgotten to bathe. Vincent did that sometimes. Well, what could he say, "If you get me the proposal, I'll look through it, and sign it."
He was as good as his word, and so was Vincent. Like his cousin or not, they were family, and Vincent was a smart man--when he wasn't pissing everyone off.
Cast:
Duke Salamah Laurent, age 49: The exasperated if polite head of the Laurent family, his ethos of "family first" is often frustrated by his dislike of so many members of his family, though he'd never show it, he's too socially cued-in.
Vincent Laurent, age 37: The enthusiastic, often unwashed, somewhat unattractive Cousin of Salamah, he found the Faith of Sathraism and has tried to convert everyone he's met to it--and failed. He is now the head of Mercantile.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Frustration
With the events of the last while, the Forum RP has been pushed to the back of everyone's minds, meaning it won't advance. In the spirit of desperately wanting to move on, I might soon start posting the stuff I have afterwards on an every-two-day schedule.
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