Flashback: Omar, Part 1

Three Years before Salamah Laurent became a Duke, Azha, late evening.

Azha was not the sort of planet a man like Salamah could love easily.  It had nothing to woo him except that this was the home-world of the House which currently held the Emperorship.  The Goman years had not been particularly kind to Salamah, who lacked the resolution for any sort of public stance, and yet whose sympathies had lay with the parties that, luckily, had eventually triumphed. 

What mattered was that peace now reigned.  All of his plans relied in peace, first.  The time may come when he would have to fight with more than ledgers and balance-sheets for his place in the Galaxy--should his plans to enoble himself actually work--but he wanted them to be held off as long as possible.

There were worse planets, and at least the weather was nice.  Not that, living in an apartment paid for by the largess of the low nobility, he experienced much of it.  The city though, that was nice.  Not the sort of place where a man would fear being mugged.  His brother was away, off on a binge no doubt, his Cousin was practically sleeping in the public library, attempting to soak up as much in the way of galactic records as Marcus did in the way of booze.

There were only two people home.  And that was part of the problem.  The sun was setting over the rim of a  Noble's mansion, casting the cool-colored house into even more gloom.  His wife had  chosen a style that focused on light blues and sharp edges, and the luxurious, well-ordered apartment always felt to him like some sterile underwater lab.

His warmer colors clashed rather badly against the lights--a deeper blue--in the place, and he'd felt a low level of annoyance over the last few years, annoyance he didn't show, hid behind charm and an outward respect for her quite popular style.  Many of the Demimonde, that professional class of revellers, fashionistas and courtiers had followed suit, and by any standards it was one of those minor successes that the courtiers of the middle houses--and that word held no power against the word Houses--of nobility so relished.  Except he desired to rise further.

And there were only two steps he could take on the path upward. Either pick a side, become a courtier, a retainer, and point-man, essentially a vassal of one of the Houses, likely one of the Small Houses, and make himself useful.  He had been under the patronage of a wide variety of powerful men and women, but that seemed very different to Salamah that the absolute loyalty and submission that such a step would require.

Or he could try to form a House.  Buy a coat of arms, bribe his way into it, rise by his own merits along with his family, or lose everything.  The risks were great, but recently he had begun reading the writings of a a well-known thinker, who had said, "Victory without risk is triumph without glory."  He had been talking about the game of politics, and he had been a player himself of some import, back in the first three-hundred years of Empire.  Of course, he was quite the hypocrite, considering when his side lost he didn't have the decency to accept execution, and had grovelled, schemed, and switched sides to avoid death. 

Still, it was a nice sentiment.

He stepped through the apartment past the fish-tank and opened the door to the barren, half-empty bedroom.  All of the furniture other than the bed was sequestered in the walls.  Some called it minimalism, he called it boring.  He touched a panel, and the lights came on, his wife blinking awake, dressed in a night-gown that was quite flattering, a pale sort of blue material that clung to her and shimmered with her every motion.  He didn't look at her, though he kept his eyes in such a way that it looked like he was, candidly, looking at her.

And he said, "Love, we should talk.  I've come to an important decision for our family, and so of course I wanted to discuss it with you.  You know how much your opinion means to me," he said tenderly, voice tined with love.

He found it was somewhat easy to like people, very easy to hate people, and very, very hard to love people.  The only persons he loved were his surviving brother, sister, cousin, niece...family, in other words.  And currently he also hated, or at least disliked all of them, even while loving them.

And the only person alive he respected was his sister, and were he the sort to hurt family, she'd be dead, after what happened.

Faking love or friendship was far easier, and less painful, than the alternative.

"Thank you dear," she said, batting her eyes and motioning for him to join her in bed.  Seeing little else in the way of options he moved forward, his every motion smooth, and slid into bed, turning to her.  "Now what is it you have decided?" she asked.

"To risk," he said, simply, each word said in the crispest manner, "To risk...what?  Everything, most likely.  To work now, for however long it takes, to ascend to become a House, whatever costs are accrued.  To give this family all that I can and..." he looked away, "There is a certain thing that is required if we are to truly be a noble House..."

He felt a wave of disgust rise in him.  Here he was beginning to dissemble.  He had the ability, long practiced in court, to spend a thousand words saying practically nothing, cocooning the important words to soften their impact.  He could see that's what he was about to do, and it shamed him.  Here Salamah was trying to be bold, to take risks, here he even was taking a risk and all he could think of was...

He stopped his thoughts, let them slide away.  She was looking at him, and he realized that his face was doing something he didn't want it to do.  It was showing his emotions!  Not whichever emotions he wanted someone to think but...he was frowning.

So he let out a sigh and said, "I need an heir.  It doesn't matter to me whether they are a boy or a girl," the person he respected the most, after all, was a woman, "Just that they have the skills necessary to take over when I die.  And I don't think our niece is going to be that person, do you?"

"No," she admitted, softly.  Jamila was fifty two, he was forty eight. 

"And, well, I can't have them with you...I mean..." 

"I could still have children."  IVF had made fifty-five year olds pregnant, and sometimes you got a rare natural case.  But, well, for the vast, overwhelming majority of women, by the age of fifty-tswo it was too late.  She knew that but, of course, well, humans have a startling capacity for self-deception.

"No," he said, and then let his voice soften, "No...the child might turn out...wrong.  And it'd be dangerous for you.  You might get hurt, your body might not be able to..." he reached out and ran his hands through her silky blonde hair.  "But...I have another idea.  We could hire a woman, have a doctor inseminate her medically.  She could be in your care, I don't need to see her, just need to know that she's...doing well.  She has the baby, we pay her, and that's that."

Salamah knew that she knew that he cheated.  It was the mostly unspoken truth.  And so he had come up with a cold, clinical, caculating distant and business-like solution to his child shortage.  Hoping that she would go for it.

"I won't have it.  I am your wife and I," she said, showing the essential tradionalism of her believes, "Will bear your child or nobody will.  I will not let any such woman into your house, and I will track down any outside purchases you make."

She said it matter of factly, "We will get through this.  Together.  I support you, I love you, and I am proud of you for taking such decisive action...we'll see the doctor in a week or two to see if I can't be made pregnant.  I know just the Doctor to do it," she said, smiling.  "Now..." and her smile turned into almost a leer.

He said, "In a minute, I need to wash up first."

She nodded and he stood, his hair cut short in fashion he was sure would be changed within a few months, and walked into the bathroom, and stared in the mirror.  It was expensive, and could also double as a security monitor, a gaming screen, and one could even 'try out' new haircuts in the thing.  But Salamah used it for its primary function.

He had hidden accounts, he had all sorts of contingencies, all designed for if his sister came back...but he supposed his wife deserved it.  She was nearly as smart as his sister, charming, and she could be surprisingly inventive, even if long-term planning was not a particular talent of hers.

Salamah could see his face hardening into resolve in the mirror.

A business arrangement?  No.  He was going to...enjoy this.

Cast

Salamah Laurent, 45:  A well respected Courtier at the heart of the Galaxy, he has begun to nurture designs far greater than his already-lofty station.

Jamilla Laurent, 52:  A trend-setting wife of a major courtier, she is sharp and intelligent, and supports her husbands ambitions...but not some of his strayings from their marriage bed.