Beyond - Legends Annals of the Noble House of Trieste: Volume 10 (AU, OC)

AzureAngel2 CPL_Macja leiamoody spycoder9 Tim Battershell Vehn and especially jcgoble3, who will find this the beginning of a story that I think he will particularly enjoy.



Jedi Enclave, Salis D’aar, Bakura

Bakura had once been a place that prudent Jedi had avoided. The world’s populace had overwhelmingly believed in the Cosmic Balance and that every good act engendered an evil one. The Jedi, with their do-gooding ways, were only creating more evil with everything that they did.

However, things had changed. It had begun with the Reformation of the Cosmic Balance, which adjusted the religion’s philosophy slightly. Good acts did not create evil acts, the church leaders decided. Good acts offset evil acts. Darkness was a part of the galaxy. It could only be counteracted by the virtuous works of good hearted beings. An individual’s good deeds helped keep the balance, not put the galaxy into imbalance.

The other change had been the resettlement of the world. Those who had returned to Bakura had brought with them a more enlightened viewpoint. The Jedi were not outsiders--they were the heroes of the Neo-Sith War that had destroyed their planet. They had fought the same enemy as their relatives. Fionn Trieste, the Prime Minister who embodied the refounding of Bakuran society, had even worked for the Jedi Council for a time. He had carefully included land for an enclave of the Order in the new plans for Salis D’aar. It was out of affection for many friends that he made this arrangement.

Elfie Trieste sometimes went to the Jedi Enclave. It was not near the UB Salis D’aar campus, but she made the trek out of a sense of duty and heritage. Placed in front of the enclave was a statue of light green stone. Its pose conveyed forward motion, robe and hair streaming behind the female figure. The lightsaber hung at her belt, appropriately, for the subject had been a warrior, but that had not been her trade. She had been a consular, a Sage Master in her later years. And later years they had been. She had not begun her training as a Padawan until she was an adult, endowed with a PhD in Political Science from Republican University.

And yet, Elfie was well aware that she had used that lightsaber. In its green glow, a deeper and darker hue than her own skin, she had fought at the Battle of Obroa-Skai, the final confrontation of the Jedi and Sith in the Neo-Sith War. In fact, she had been the architect of that engagement. It had been her studies that had caused her to realize that not only were Jedi stronger when they acted in concert with each other, but that the Sith were inherently weaker, even when united under the leadership of the one they had called the Dark Lord Deran. Superior numbers would be the Sith’s undoing, but in their arrogance they assumed it was their strength. They had learned nothing from Revan.

It had been on the fields of Obroa-Skai that she and her Padawan had come face-to-face with Deran. The great Sith had wounded the woman now remembered in stone. For the rest of her life she bore the limp that his cardinal blade had delivered to her leg. But it had been in that moment that her Padawan had been the one to kill Deran. It was the beginning of the rapid end of the Neo-Sith War as they lost the one being who had been strong enough to unite backstabbing Sith.

She probably would have never wanted a monument to her existence. Better, she would have said, that her academic and intellectual works lived on. That was why after the Neo-Sith War, as a Jedi Master, she had taught political science at UB Salis D’aar and guided future generations of Younglings and Padawans at this enclave, an enclave built to reach for the stars and to explore the unknowns that still lay beyond Bakura.

She never deluded herself that the Sith were gone. No, if anything they were more dangerous. They were back in the shadows again. Few in number and strong in power because they were less. It was why, when she discovered she was pregnant, she hid her pregnancy and gave her infant daughter up for adoption. The child would doubtless be used to harm her, to gain an advantage over her. It was only when she knew she would die, when her life was measured out in months, that she found her daughter again and was able to have the joy of being a mother.

And that was why this was the only connection which Elphaba Trieste had with her grandmother, Jedi Master Lexine Wydra.

It was unreal to Elfie that she should be descended from a Jedi--but not just any Jedi. One that had been famous the galaxy over. For someone who had started her life shunned for a physical flaw, the green skin imparted to her based on prenatal chemical exposure, she could not have ended it higher. In her life, she had possibly been the most famous Chandrilan in the galaxy, eclipsing even Reina Kether (who Lexine had loved to watch, being “the greenest Patriot fan in the galaxy,” as her homeworld came to affectionately call her). Even if she had not been a Trieste, Elfie would have felt that she was descended from the stuff of legends. She felt more connected to this heritage than she did the Noble House. That was why she sometimes ate lunch so that she could look at her grandmother’s statue and read the words on the plaque beneath it. They were words that Lexine had composed for the opening of this enclave.

“Let us build a house where all are named,
Their songs and visions heard,
And loved and treasured, taught and claimed
As life sustaining words.
Built of tears and cries and laughter,
Prayers of faith and songs of grace,
Let this house proclaim from floor to rafter:
All are welcome in this place.”

Despite these words, Elfie had never actually been inside the enclave. She knew many beings had been inside who were not Jedi. There was undoubtedly security of some sort, but it was her understanding that anyone could go inside if they had a reason to do so. Elfie even wondered how much of a reason you needed.

One of the benefits of sitting where she did was that she could see beings coming and going from the enclave. Being watching could be entertaining and Elfie wondered what business it was that brought Jedi in and out of the enclave. Perhaps some of them were hunting the Sith that her grandmother had banished from the galaxy. Perhaps they were off on new projects to explore the Unknown Regions. Maybe they were searching for infants who were Force-sensitive, looking for the next generation of Jedi Knights. New possibilities proposed themselves with each one.

“You are Master Wydra’s granddaughter, are you not?”

Snapping out of her daydreaming, Elfie turned to find a Devaronian male in a Jedi’s robe addressing her. “Hmmm?”

“You are Master Wydra’s granddaughter? I have been told that her daughter made a home here after they were reunited. I sense something of her in you. It is not the Force, just the echo of a presence that once made an impact on my life.”

“I am,” Elfie admitted, “An echo?”

“A faint one. She trained me when I was a Youngling, at this very enclave. She was teaching me at the age of seven about political theory. A rudimentary form, but she believed everyone should know something about the way the galaxy worked, even inside the cloister of an enclave or a temple. ‘Jedi often deal with the highest levels of government. Knowing nothing about them or how they work means you’ll never do anything productive with them.’ That was how passionately she felt about it--she was telling Younglings what democracies and dictatorships were. The strange thing was how much of an impression she made on me even then,” the Devaronian said.

“So you knew her?”

“As much as a Youngling and a Padawan could know a Master of her stature. But it was because of her I became a consular. I understood how much more powerful ideas and words were than a lightsaber, thanks to her example.” The Devaronian paused then chuckled. “I hate to break it to you, but your grandmother was a terrible duelist. A senior Padawan could best her. She took it well. Of course, her mind wasn’t her only asset. She was a Sage Master. When it came to using the Force, she was probably more dangerous without a lightsaber in her hand than in it. By the way, I am Eddar Shunk.”

“Elfie Trieste.” She shook the Jedi’s hand. “Are you a Knight?”

“Yes,” Eddar said, “I hope it is no great vanity to hope that one day I may be a Master like your grandmother. I think it would honor her legacy.”

“You know, I’ve been by the enclave many times, but I never realized that there were probably so many beings here who knew my grandmother. I’ve only ever heard my mother’s stories from the short time they had together. You Jedi knew her so much more than she did.”

The Devaronian said nothing, but turned his head towards the enclave. “Do you have some time?”

Elfie hesitated. “Yes, some.”

“Then please, be my guest. I think you should come inside.”

 

Excellent. I look forward to the rest of this.

 

AzureAngel2, CPL_Macja, jcgoble3, leiamoody, spycoder9, Tim Battershell, and Vehn (who may have an old memory stirred at the very end if he wracks his brain )



The Rivers department store, Gesco City, Bakura

The name of the establishment was a dual reference. Its first location had been in Salis D’aar, the capital city of two rivers. Though the department store had made its mark on the commercial world when it relocated and built its flagship location in Gesco City, it had retained the name of its origins.

The other reason was because it also happened to be the name of the proprietor. Octave Rivers’ first store had generated enough credits that could be leveraged into loans to build his grander store in Gesco City. Naturally, he wanted to retain the brand he had already built up with it. There might have been a little egoism involved...but such was the stuff of great men sometimes.

Salis D’aar was the political heart of the planet, but Gesco City was still its most important commercial center. There was industry in and around Gesco City. Major corporations headquartered there. If you were going to make a splash in business, this was where you went to do it.

And The Rivers had made a splash. The grand, clean, classy department store quickly gained a reputation for having the latest and greatest. They prided themselves on being the height of fashion, for leading trends, for bringing everything that consumers had to have. It was said that one did not need to read fashion magazines if one could browse the ladies department of The Rivers. One did not need to research the finest appliances if you had fifteen minutes to spend at The Rivers. Boyfriends and husbands had been saved on the eve of birthdays and anniversaries by the clerks of the jewelry and fragrance departments.

Did The Rivers charge a premium for presenting the consumer with such a lineup? They did, but the guarantee of quality was implicit in The Rivers’ brand. Did the products at The Rivers retail for higher than models at competitors? They did, but superior workmanship was not free. Did people shop at The Rivers? They did--in droves.

Every morning, Octave Rivers walked the floor of his grand department store. Everything had to be just so. Every day was as clean and polished as the first day they opened. Every customer had to feel like they were experiencing something special. This was The Rivers, not the Cape Suzette Bay Company. Octave Rivers made sure that his standards were continuously upheld by observations made during his morning walk, in which he was usually accompanied by at least one associate (sometimes a head of department) whose job it was to take notes and make sure that ideas were implemented. Ideas without action were useless to Octave Rivers.

Today, that associate was marketing copywriter Ginny Lynd. If she had known she was doing the morning walk, she would not have worn heels. Trying to keep up with the rapid pace of her employer and take notes under such circumstances was proving somewhat taxing.

“Miss Lynd, make a note to have accessories change their arrangements,” Octave said, not slackening his pace, “It’s been three weeks and they’ve been the same. We can’t have staleness, Miss Lynd.”

“No Mr. Rivers,” Ginny said as she scrawled something she hoped would be legible. She had to keep her head up to make sure that she didn’t run into any customers. That would be egregious, to say the least.

“Miss Lynd, limmie season is almost upon us. I want an entire window dedicated to the Miners, wishing them luck this season.”

“Absolutely Mr. Rivers.” More scribbling.

“In fact, see if we can get Dorvan Fiesta to come to the store for a meet and greet, do some shopping. It’ll be good press,” Rivers continued, “He played at UBGC--he’ll be popular locally. And those four arms--imagine the holos! A Rivers bag in each hand.”

“And think of the byline,” Ginny interjected, “‘Grab as much as you can carry at The Rivers.’”

“Brilliant Miss Lynd! Top notch as always!”

“Thank you Mr. Rivers.”

“That’s why I’m putting you in charge of our next major marketing push.”

“That’s very--oof!--kind of you.” The minor interruption was a result of having to rush into one of the lifts before the doors closed. Octave had nearly gotten away from her while she’d been writing down her marketing copy.

“I want The Rivers to be on the BBC.”

“The BBC doesn’t have advertisers,” Ginny reminded her employer.

“I know. That’s why this will be so big.”

“I don’t think they can legally have advertisers.”

“Correct. That’s why we’re going to do something that will cause the BBC to put us on the Holonet and give us free, planet-wide advertising,” Octave said.

“That’s brilliant!” Ginny said, “What are we going to do?”

“I want you to figure that out, Miss Lynd,” Octave said cheerily as the lift doors open.

Ginny was so shocked that she nearly got stuck inside the lift and had to dart out. “Uh...okay!” she said has energetically as possible. Mr. Rivers was not someone who wanted to hear reasons why something couldn’t be done. He wanted to hear what could be done. She already knew that. Now she was going to have to figure out how to trick the BBC, the planet’s leading broadcast network with the highest journalistic and ethical standards, into featuring The Rivers on their programming. And knowing Mr. Rivers, he’d want it to be primetime too.

It was only after working all of this in her head out that she realized that Octave had brought them to the loading bay. Items purchased on the floors above were pulled from inventory here and sorted for delivery throughout the city. In fact, The Rivers would ship anywhere on Bakura (albeit for a modest fee for such long distances--fuel cells were not free, after all) and this network of beings (for, like any good Bakuran company, droid use was at an absolute minimum in their business) hurried about making sure that dresses did not go where dining room sets were expected. Octave Rivers regularly came down to the loading bay. He believed that everyone in The Rivers’ operation was important, regardless of whether they had the glamorous job working the sales floor or sweat it out doing the heavy lifting.

“Good to see you gentlemen, ladies,” Octave said as he passed through the bay at his usual clip, “Keep up the excellent work. Good to see you Mr. Gerra. Lift with the knees Ms. Exelten. Ah! Mr. Harlow!”

Ginny’s head popped up from scratching out her initial ideas of how to get The Rivers on the BBC at the name of her friend.

“I don’t think we’ve been acquainted yet, and Miss Lynd spoke so highly of you when she recommended you for the position. Welcome, welcome,” Mr. Rivers said, vigorously shaking Rickard’s hand.

“Thank you,” Rickard said with his usual lack of emotion. As far as Ginny was concerned, it was probably about as much as could be expected from Rickard on a first meeting with anyone.

“Miss Lynd tells me that you were in the war? The most recent one?”

“Yes.”

“It is an honor to have a hero such as yourself at The Rivers. You are a credit to us. Ever since the civil war I’ve made it a mission to help integrate our veterans back into society through jobs with The Rivers. You deserve every consideration that we can give you,” Rivers continued, “I hope you’re finding the work to your liking.”

“I’m no hero,” is all Rickard said.

“And modest too!. You forgot to mention that about him, Miss Lynd,” Octave said jovially, “Keep up the good work, Mr. Harlow. Keep it up.”

And with that, the rush of energy that was Octave River whisked on, towing Ginny Lynd in his wake. She gave Rickard a brief wave as she went on her way.

Rickard watched them go, dazed. It wasn’t because he had now met the boundless enthusiasm that was Octave Rivers. It was because for the first time in a long time, someone had looked him square in the eye and not even flinched. Rickard Harlow knew when beings were uncomfortable around the half mask that hid his wartime injury--and Rivers hadn’t been. He reached up and touched the mask and felt it, as if to make sure it was still there. It was.

It seemed the galaxy still had surprises in store for Rickard Harlow.

---

Jedi enclave, Salis D’aar, Bakura

“It’s so interesting, the way that the enclave still feels very Bakuran,” Elfie said, looking about the spacious halls and vaulted foyers of the enclave, “The curving lines, the play of interior and exterior space together, the use of transparisteel...I was expecting something different.”

“There is certainly a style promoted by the Order, architecturally,” Knight Shunk said as they walked through the enclave, “but we try to incorporate elements of the societies in which we live into our designs. It is part of an effort to show that we are not completely set apart from the galaxy in which we live. Yes, we must insulate ourselves from the influences of politics and culture to achieve the harmony with the Force that we desire, but we cannot forget that ultimately we protect beings who live in the galaxy.”

“So what are we going to see?” Elfie asked.

“This.”

The double doors before them slid open silently, revealing what could only be the enclave’s archives. It was not the largest library that Elfie had ever seen before, for UB Salis D’aar had one of the planet’s largest collections. It was not all kept in one place, however. The enclave’s was. Rows upon rows of glowing holobooks were stacked neatly together, exuding knowledge and learning.

“Fantastic,” Elfie breathed.

“I thought the granddaughter of Master Wydra would appreciate such a thing. She helped found this collection, but was not its curator. You can imagine that there is plenty of work on representative democracy and republican government here. Her own opinions of importance were initially formative, though other voices have contributed to its development as well. Allow me to introduce one of the members of the enclave’s council, Master Nadon.” The Devaronian gestured towards an Ithorian Jedi. “This is Elphaba Trieste, daughter--”

“Of Nessarose Thorne Trieste, daughter of Lexine Wydra?” Nadon said in a deep voice, in Basic no less, “I have heard the name.”

“How?” Elfie asked, before thinking that might be a bold question to ask a Jedi Master.

“I read newspapers,” the Ithorian said languidly.

“Oh. Right. Wait, I’m in newspapers?”

“No, but the social column usually has reports on your kin. We keep a family tree on hand. It’s been useful from time to time to keep you all straight.”

“Yeah, there’s kind of a lot of us,” Elfie admitted.

“Taking her on a tour, Eddar?” Nadon inquired.

“Actually, here to check something out. Could you have one of your Younglings fetch this title for me?” The Knight handed over a scrap of flimsi on which he had hastily written something out. Elfie couldn’t see what.

The Ithorian Master slowly waved one large digit. “Tisk, tisk, Knight Shunk. Having Younglings and Padawans carry out basic tasks for you. You should know better.”

“Oh, I would get it myself, but I think you’d prefer to have me handle the original,” Eddar said.

The Master gazed more closely at the flimsi. “Indeed...I see...of course. This way, both of you.”

The Ithorian led them down the carpeted paths of the archives, punctuated with research terminals and tables for study. There were beings of all ages and sizes pursuing studies. They were quiet, just like a university library--even down to the rare materials room, their destination.

“Every Jedi archives collects to itself materials of particular worth and often antiquity. It is the way of archives and the Order is no exception. We, however, happen to have more curious holdings than others. For example, there is a small repository of holocrons here. Not as large as the great library at Ossus, but even so. For example, your grandmother created a holocron. We keep it, and the others, under great care and security, but perhaps sometime we can arrange for you to view it. Sadly, without the Force you would be unable to unlock the knowledge inside. As an object of art and an artifact of your ancestry, however, it still may hold some interest.”

“Try definitely,” Elfie said as they passed into the rare materials room. It required the Ithorian’s biometrics to enter--and Elfie had a feeling by a brief flick of a few fingers there might be some kind of hidden Force lock as well.

“What we can show you right now is…” Eddar said as he scanned the shelves of the room, searching for something very particular.

“Gloves, Knight Shunk, gloves with these things,” Master Nadon cautioned him.

“Well, that is one way to do it,” Eddar said, instead choosing to levitate the chosen volume out and onto the table in the middle of the room. His Ithorian superior sighed, clearly less than thrilled at such casual use of the Force. “I’m not turning to the dark side any time soon,” Shunk admonished Master Nadon.

“You set a bad example for impressionable Padawans.”

“Well, we don’t let them into the rare materials rooms, so we’re fine,” Shunk said.

Elfie was less interested in this debate on responsible use of the Force than she was by the leather bound book of flimsi before her. It certainly seemed old, but beyond that she didn’t know what it was.

“This has been scanned and preserved in holo form, one of the Padawans is fetching that for you now, but I felt you deserved to see the original in person,” Shunk said. With a gentle flick of a finger, the cover of the book opened, revealing the first page and the tight, but legible handwriting:

The Confessions of Lexine Wydra​

“Written in her own hand,” Eddar added.

Elfie had no words.

 

Octave Rivers could put anyone in a good mood. Even Darth Vader.

at the mention of needing a family tree to keep everyone straight.

And the tour of the Jedi Enclave is getting very interesting. I wonder what all is written in that book.

 

In order: yes, I certainly do, and you just might find out.

 

AzureAngel2, CPL_Macja, jcgoble3, leiamoody, spycoder9, Tim Battershell, and Vehn The timeline of Elfie reading these entries might get a bit wonky, but that’s less important than her experience of learning about her grandmother’s life.

Bakuran Senate offices, Salis D’aar, Bakura

“Ayn, I think we know why we’re both here,” Senator Fellswig said.

“It’s not my tea?” Ayn asked innocently as she finished pouring a cup for herself. She had already seen to the needs of the Agriculture Committee’s Chairman, as propriety and custom dictated.

“Your husband, who is not a member of my committee, has made it no secret that he wants major changes to the Farm Bill,” Fellswig said before blowing on his tea, “He’s going to find that excoriating my committee for ‘criminally negligent inaction,’ I believe was one of his most recent charges, is not going to get him far, nor are his radical demands.”

“I think they’re far from radical,” Ayn replied, “but they are a starting point in a negotiation.”

“So you’re saying he’ll move towards the center?”

“If you’re serious about overhauling the right parts of the Farm Bill, yes,” Ayn said. Fellswig was not a Senator who danced around issues and Ayn wasn’t going to deal with him in any other way.

“Well it’s not going to happen. He wants to do away with agrobusiness subsidies? He’s going to have a lot of campaign credits coming down on his opponent’s side this cycle. That’s not a fate I want.”

“You’re an Atalanta Senator. You’re not going to have agrobusiness credits come up against you.”

“As chair of the Agriculture Committee, yes I absolutely will,” Fellswig said, “They won’t care where I’m from.”

“I guarantee you FFFC funding,” Ayn said, citing the Fianna Fail Finance Committee, often called the Triple F C and one of the most influential sources of campaign finance for Senatorial races.

“You don’t control the Triple F C,” Fellswig said, “You can’t make that promise.”

“I’m making it right now. Do you know the last time a Dormingale or a Trieste didn’t deliver on a promise?” Ayn asked.

“No.”

“Neither do I, because my husband’s great-grandfather and great-grandmother promised they were going to defend Bakura to the death and the Sith took them at their word on that,” Ayn said, “So when I say the Triple F C, is going to fund your campaign come Korriban or high water, I mean it.”

Fellswig considered this for a few seconds. “Assuming I was willing to play ball here, what would be acceptable in the next Farm Bill?”

“Dress it up with whatever other reforms you want, but at the core we need a strict cap on who gets subsidies. A ceiling that promotes family farming and not large corporate interests,” Ayn said.

“That’s a big ask. That’s a direct attack on agrobusiness.”

“We know. But we know you can get that through the current committee. If you do that, I’ll whip the votes on the floor,” Ayn promised.

“Other than generally infuriating and alienating huge corporations that can throw a lot of credits at me in an election, what reason do I have for supporting this?” Fellswig asked.

Ayn put her teacup and saucer down. “After being Chair of the Agriculture Committee, what has been your life’s dream? The one thing you’ve never been able to accomplish?” she asked.

---

The next day

“You know if my constituents knew I was having tea with a Cape Suzette liberal, they would pillory me,” Senator Harleth said as she reclined on Ayn’s couch, “Yes, pillory. You don’t think they do that anymore, but we’re talking about Arielle County. We do all sorts of things you urbanites haven’t even conceived of.”

“Sugar?” Ayn offered.

“I really shouldn’t. My doctor would have a fit. She says the sugar will kill me if I keep at it.” Even so, she helped herself to a lump.

“He doesn’t know you that well then,” Ayn said, “You entered the Senate just after my mother in-law. I think you’ve weathered a lot of worse things than some sugar.”

Despite having represented a county that seceded during the Civil War, Quinleen Harleth hadn’t lost an election in her district, the bounds of with had changed with the passing decades, for nearly 30 years. That had included a brief period of not running at all, for Harleth--though never siding with Kerry Trieste in the great taxation debates that led to the Civil War--had never held a position in the Maple Flag Republic’s government. She might be a member of the rival Union Party, but her record was clean of sedition and secession. It was probably the only reason that her party had suffered her to run again--a clean record Unionist that had prewar popularity and a shot at winning in the first election cycle after the war. Now she was such a mainstay of the Senate that they didn’t dare oppose her. And why would they? Her district included the very edges of Nouvelle Orleans and she won it handily. Such margins mattered in politics.

“Ayn, we may have regular teas, but I know when you’re winding up to ask me for something,” Harleth said, “and I do so hate anticipation.”

“You’re the ranking member of Committee on Finance,” Ayn stated, “I have a favor to ask.”

“So many Senators do.”

“I need to get a bill out of committee,” Ayn said.

“So many Senators do. The Chair is of your party. He would be a better person to ask.”

“And she’s so moderate he might as well be in your party,” Ayn pointed out, “You have a good working relationship with her, but she’s pinning down the consumer protection funding bill.”

“We both appreciate a streamlined, effective government and the consumer protection boondoggle in Commerce is anathema,” Harleth said, “It’s not going to happen. That agency needs to die a natural death and we’re going to do that through the power of the purse.”

Without missing a beat, Ayn said, “What if I told you that I’ve taken a sudden interest in building bridges?”

Senator Harleth paused. “Are you talking figuratively--”

“When I say literally, I am using it in its most original sense,” Ayn said preemptively with a smile.

---

Jedi enclave, Salis D’aar, Bakura

Seated in one of the carrels of the enclave’s archives, Elfie had begun pouring over the holobook copy of her mother’s journal.

It’s time that I start a journal again. As is obvious here, I’ve actually decided to use pen and paper rather than a datapad like I’ve done all my other work on. It’s archaic to actually write a journal. But I do like writing so much better. Of course, having sifted through all sorts of primary source documents that have been handwritten (with atrocious results and a constant strain on my eyes), I suppose this is hypocritical of me. Somehow I feel safer that my journal isn’t in some network and can be hidden easily underneath a bed. When I’m dead someone can open it up and see what my tortured life was like, but not beforehand. Heavens no, not beforehand.

In any event, I’ll try to write regularly, but no guarantees. Things are beginning to pick up now that we’re four weeks into the term here and I’ve already got a stack of papers to grade by these snotty rich undergraduates. Oh, sure, Republican has some smart students, but none of them are ever in my class. No, the smart ones don’t get stuck with a lecturer. They get to study with real professors while the children of legacies who can barely make a grade are given to me.

This is all so frustrating, and a horrible way to start a clean slate. So something happy: Kirile told me today that she’s been working on her research regarding the Tion Cluster and thinks that it could be an excellent area to begin writing a minor paper to test the waters before we publish our new treatises. It’s probably the most conservative way right now to see whether or not we’ll get a backlash when we really bring out the big guns. I’m beginning to get excited again at the thought that we might be able to change the way people view history and break out of the current mold of complacency that academia has lodged itself into.

The papers that my undergrads turned in yesterday have yet to be graded and are calling to me to responsibility. I suppose I should be responsible and dispatch them.

Elfie wondered who Kirile was. It was not a name that her mother had ever shared from the conversations she’d had with Lexine. Elfie made a note on her handheld datapad to look it up later. It seemed to be a colleague, someone employed by Republican University at the same time her grandmother had been a lecturer there--a position that was clearly not all it was cracked up to be, even at one of the finest institutions of learning in the galaxy.

More than that Elfie was in awe that she was reading the very words of her own grandmother. She was reaching back into time to touch her granddaughter, to speak to her, whether she knew it or not. Elfie was going to have to get some kind of timeline to ground these entries in what else she knew of her grandmother.

She read on with all haste.

 

AzureAngel2, CPL_Macja, jcgoble3, leiamoody, spycoder9, Tim Battershell, and Vehn. Bardan_Jusik is going to find this interesting too.

Redwood Creek, Bakura

Kerry Trieste sat slumped in her chair, looking out the windows of her office at the bay. She had swiveled so she was looking at the skyline of Cape Suzette, a city that prided itself on its aesthetic beauty. It was a sentiment that Kerry shared and when she needed to clear her head she often gazed upon the city to find peace and calm.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t working today.

The reason was the final report of the blue ribbon commission that she had created two years ago to evaluate player safety in the Bakura 10 Conference, which she oversaw as Commissioner. Though the report was intended to cover just her conference, its conclusions could easily be extrapolated to the entire sport. Those conclusions were troubling.

“There exists a significant risk of head trauma in limmie. Our research strongly suggests that risk does not necessarily increase proportionally to the number of collisions to the head, but instead can take place after one collision involving the head.”

All head contact in limmie--a sport that Kerry herself had played nearly 40 years ago in a contact, collegiate setting, in the very conference she now oversaw, in fact--could potentially cause long-term injury to the brain of a sentient being. What was worse, the report said further study of non-head collisions required further study, that risk of injury could potentially arise from any collision at the speeds being talked about in limmie. And that was only the tip of the Star Destroyer. The report raised questions about all contact in the sport, while admitting much more research was required.

It was utterly devastating. It threatened the entire sport. And it happened on her watch.

For a woman who had fought wars and pushed massive legislative agendas in her political career (though one of her greatest achievements as Chancellor had been shredded by the recent dissolution of the RTO and the disappearance of the trade agreement that had linked the Republic with the RTO), Kerry Trieste now knew she had one of her greatest challenges ever on her hands. She knew the dangers well. Politics was a dangerous game. Entrenched interests responded negatively to the slightest perceived shift in policy that would threaten them and brought out the long vibroknives.

But sports? They were something that people felt even more deeply about. Sports were part of so many beings’ lives. They were part of their identity, what they went to for escape. To touch them was like trying to wield a lightsaber. Unless you had the Force on your side, you were probably going to lose some part of your body.

Kerry did not want to do what she knew she had to do. She had taken this job because she wanted something fun to do in her retirement. Being Bak10 Commissioner had seemed like it would be easy after being Chancellor.

She swung her chair around and, without straightening up, reached for her handheld datapad that was sitting on one corner of her desk. Despite her prominence as a public figure, she kept a short contact list. Beings that she called friends not for political or business reasons, but because they were friends.

“Good afternoon...forgive me, I didn’t know what time it was there. Good evening. This is Kerry Trieste….No, I understand. It is the middle of the night. Please tell him I called and that he’ll probably want to see my press conference from today….No, it hasn’t happened yet….Yes, thank you very much. Give the Mand’alor my regards. I’m sure we’ll talk soon.”

---

Standing at a podium bearing the Bakura 10 Conference’s logo, Kerry faced the media. It was mainly Bakura-based outlets, but the Bak10 was a big enough story in collegiate sports that there were representatives from galactic networks there as well.

“Good afternoon, thank you for coming,” Kerry said, “Today, the Bakura 10 Conference releases the summary report of our blue ribbon commission evaluating player safety in the sport of limmie in the conference. Members of this panel included respected neurologists from major teaching hospitals and medical schools across Bakura. This report has gone through peer review and has been accepted for publication in a major medical journal later this month. However, copies are now available for download for your perusal. I encourage you to read it in its entirety.

“That being said, it is important to draw attention to one of the primary conclusions stated by the report: that there exists, and I quote--” Kerry referred to the printed copy even though she had the words all but burned into her mind, “--‘a significant risk of head trauma in limmie.’” She looked back up and was greeted by flashes from cameras. “Furthermore, the findings of this report state that it may take as little as one head contact for such trauma to take place. Additionally, the report calls for further investigation of non-head contact and its potential effects on the sentient brain.”

Kerry turned her datapad off. She had now exhausted prepared remarks.

“As you know, last season, the Bakura 10 Conference made a major commitment to its players, across all sports, promising that they would receive health care through the universities that they play for with continuing responsibilities on the part of the universities. We also instituted a rule change in limmie that made any physical contact between players that involved the head illegal to do everything we can to eliminate head trauma from our games.

“For the 279 season, the Bakura 10 Conference will disallow all points scored by the head in any fashion. All play of the ball with the head will result in a dead ball foul and turnover of possession to the other team. I have instructed our officials to increase vigilance for head contact and to aggressively call penalties on this point. Teams and players should consider this forewarning that endangering their head, their teammates’, or even their opponents’ heads will receive swift and potentially severe punishment. The Conference wants to be absolutely clear how seriously we are taking this issue. No matter what our standard was in the past, a new standard now exists for contact involving the head.

“To that end, all players who sustain contact to the head for any reason will be immediately removed the game--and I mean this across all sports--for evaluation. This will be enforced by game officials. I have mandated that all Bak10 institutions maintain medical facilities outfitted with brain scanning technology so the effects of these injuries can be evaluated by medical doctors. This is technology and expertise that exists in the galaxy today and it needs to be deployed for the safety of players. Strict oversight of these evaluations will be instituted. Players who have sustained head trauma, according to guidelines the commission has been asked to establish forthwith, will not be eligible to return to play out of an abundance of concern and caution for the players’ safety.

“These are the steps that the Bak10 is taking. Thus far we have been the only limmie conference to take action in an attempt to reduce head trauma events. I have been told by professional scouts that these changes are reducing the attractiveness of Bak10 players to pro limmie teams, that continuing down this path will cause the Bak10 to become a second rate limmie league, that I will be called ‘the being who killed Bakuran limmie.’

“I do not know how I will be judged now and in the future for these actions, but I know that I cannot live with myself if I do not do everything I can to make this game safe. Everything. But there are limits to what I can do. It is time for other college conferences, professional limmie, high school and youth limmie, start treating this issue with the seriousness it deserves. The Bak10 is ready to share what we know and what we’re doing so others can do more to address head trauma. We’re not afraid of having this conversation in public because we can’t afford not to have this conversation.

“And that’s why I want you to imagine something,” Kerry said, pausing briefly, “I want you to imagine a galaxy with non-contact limmie.

“Let me just say that this is not something that the Bak10 is proposing at this time. What we are proposing is that we start thinking about what this game would look like if contact was eliminated. I understand that fans love big hits, but these hits come with a price that will be paid not now, but perhaps 10, 20 years from now. Can we sacrifice these beings, especially those who are student athletes, who are children, on this altar of hard hits? Can we as a galaxy in good conscience put them into a gladiatorial arena for our own amusement? These are university students, entering the prime of their life! Will we exchange four years of athletic glory for a lifetime of pain and problems, some of which will never be felt in bones or joints, but in the recesses of the mind?”

The Commissioner paused to gather herself. She could feel her emotions getting the better of her. “I realize that I am talking about fundamental changes to the sport of limmie--changes that will move the Bak10 further away from the GCAA standard if they do not follow suit. But this is an idea that needs to be explored. Thousands of touch limmie games happen every day across the galaxy. I play in one with my family every year. Physical education classes in schools play flag limmie daily. I don’t know what this future would look like. What I know is that we need to start talking about it as a galaxy.

“I played this sport at a contact level, as you know. To date, I have displayed no adverse effects as a result. Perhaps I was lucky. Perhaps I am making a mountain out of emerging science. But I know the cost to the galaxy is too great if we don’t take action now. If what we do here today only improves the life of one athlete, even if that being does not play in the Bak10, then I will thank the Force for that and say it is all worth it.

“Beings across the galaxy need to tell their leagues, their schools, their teams, their coaches that they want limmie to be safer, that they want their neighbors, their classmates, their brothers, and their sons to play the game safely. We need to save limmie.

“I ask your indulgence as I will not take questions today. I think I’ve said enough and you will all find me very willing in the weeks to come to sit down with you on the record to talk about the future of the sport. Thank you.”

---

Jedi enclave, Salis D’aar, Bakura

From her carrel, Elfie read the next entry of her grandmother’s journal.

Things are going as usual. I suppose this is where I should briefly record the mundane details of my existence for the uninitiated in the event this journal is not immediately connected with myself, therefore saving researchers hours and hours of futile effort, many of which I have experienced myself.

Or her granddaughter, apparently. Though precisely what would be revealed, she wasn’t sure. Her knowledge, Elfie was realizing, was not as complete as she had once thought.

First of all, as a result of extreme conditions surrounding my prenatal development (reference the Brentaal chemical accident for further details on my situation), I am green. Literally, I am much closer to lime than to forest green, but such things are hardly important. As a result, I have been occasionally mistaken for an alien species as opposed to being taken for a human, though I’ve learned that despite the fact that the galaxy is a large place with many wonderful unique peoples and places, beings generally still seem to have small minds. Though I have now completed my doctorate at Republican University, I still cannot get a professorship, unlike the majority of my peers and classmates. I privately admit here that I have a strong belief that I have been discriminated against on the basis of my verdure and the events surrounding my birth.

Other aspects of my life are generally much less curious or controversial. While I went to Republican, I got myself involved in several movements like civil rights, free speech, species equality, open government, and galactic peace. As you can see, just a few things. I suppose that in some respects I used to be a radical, but I think I’ve moved past that now to much more mainstream views. Well, some of them are mainstream anyways. Though there’s no denying that I did have flowers in my hair for a while. Especially since there are holos to prove it.

Elfie wanted to see those.

My tastes in music are all over the place. Some of it harkens back to my more radical days, though the bulk of my favorite music is generally classical. Hence I quietly enjoy the pleasure of concertos, nocturnes, and symphonies. Naturally not without the usual piercing glances from the upper crust when I attend the Symphony. Unfortunately, one can’t just pin a doctorate to the front of one’s shirt. But I doubt that would even put them into their place.

Oh, and a sidenote, I’ve only dated two people in my life. Two men in twenty-six years. Yes, if nothing else this confirms the fact that I am indeed a social reject. Though I doubt I will never forget Fiyen or Galeon. That’s for another time though. It’s late now and I need to sleep.

“What?!” Elfie exclaimed despite herself. This she had to know more about.

 

Amazing story you are telling here. Please keep me updated when you post more?

 

I'm glad that you enjoy it! I'll add you to the TAG list NightWatcher91

 

AzureAngel2, CPL_Macja, jcgoble3, leiamoody, NightWatcher91, spycoder9, Tim Battershell, and Vehn (In case you were ever wondering what Corrie Ypres looked like--which might be pertinent to what follows--this would be it. And as certain people who read this may well ask, no, I have not decided if Quentin looks like this Scott Michael Foster. Also, this touches on things that happened over in Vehn’s The Fields of Tesserone. In case you didn’t know, the two of us borrow from each other’s storylines quite frequently.)

Atalanta University dorms, Atalanta, Bakura

“Corrie, please I know you’re in there,” Quentin said to the closed door, “People are asking where you’ve been.”

“Go away Quentin,” came the muffled reply from the other side of the door.

“You’re missing lectures. You love lecture,” Quentin said.

“You can learn a lot from textbooks. I’m fine.”

“Corrie.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone right now,” Corrie said, “Including you.”

“Then don’t talk. Just listen,” Quentin said. He sat down on the floor of the narrow dorm corridor and put his back against the door. “What happened with the RTO is terrible. But you left all that--your father’s world and expectations--behind. That’s why you came to Bakura. To do something yourself. To do what you want to do. Maybe the RTO being gone isn’t a bad thing.”

Suddenly Quentin found himself on his back. The door that had been behind him had suddenly slid open and he’d fallen into Corrie’s room.

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about!” Corrie shouted, “You don’t know what happened! In that board room, the Tribune from Druckenwell started everything. Do you think my family, my father didn’t know what was going to happen? Do you think that Tribune says ten words without my family’s approval? My family killed the RTO. They killed it Quentin!”

The young Eldred man had gotten to his feet. He’d never seen Corrie yell at anyone the entire time he’d known her. It hadn’t been long since he had met her, but she hadn’t seemed like the yelling type. Processing this was a bit overwhelming.

“Why are you so upset about this when you don’t want to follow your father’s footsteps? You don’t want to be his replacement for your sister,” Quentin said.

“Quentin! This isn’t about me, this is about Druckenwell. Do you know what the RTO was supposed to be? It was supposed to be something that was going to take planets that wanted to make something of themselves, to improve the lives of workers, of farmers, of little guys. We were the little guys Quentin! We weren’t in the Republic! We weren’t allied with the Hutts! We were systems no one else cared about and we were going to be better and stronger together! Do you know what this is going to do to the little guys on Druckenwell, on Roon, on every world that had been a signatory to the RTO?” Corrie asked him, “Without free trade with the Republic, half the galaxy’s markets are going to price us out of competition. The Republic has such high import barriers that products don’t sell because they’re too expensive for consumers. Production is going to fall, workers are going to get fired. The RTO worlds are going to start trying to slit each other’s throats to get ahead of one another, fighting over decicreds. It’ll be every being for themselves. This is going to undo decades of work and it’s my family’s fault. It’s our fault! It’s our fault!”

“Cor--”

“How am I ever supposed to do anything good with my life, how am I ever going to build something when I’m always going to be a Ypres, the family that put profit over societal goods?” Corrie said, “I’m never going to do anything! Why should anyone trust me?” Corrie turned away as she began to cry.

“Corrie, it’s not your fault,” Quentin said, feeling a little helpless. He hadn’t dealt with crying women very much. He wasn’t sure what to do with one.

“My family did this. My family,” Corrie repeated as she sat down on her bed, looking and feeling very small.

Quentin sat down next to her, since that seemed like the right thing to do, but he still didn’t know what to say.

“Look at what my father and his ilk did to the RTO. They spat in the faces of the Vehns. They were the only people who cared enough to build something,” Corrie said, the tears a little less frequent now, “Who’s going to care about us now?”

“Beings like you,” Quentin replied.

Corrie looked at him. “I wish that made me feel better.”

“Maybe it’s okay if it doesn’t. Sometimes we need to be sad.”

“Maybe we do.” Corrie said. “Thank you, Quentin.” And she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

“I…uh….”

“Don’t get any ideas. I’m a helpless woman in emotional distress,” Corrie said.

“You? Helpless?”

“Well, maybe not helpless,” Corrie said, beginning to smile.

“That’s what I thought,” Quentin said, “Come on, you need to eat. The dining hall is open. And I guarantee that everyone there is too stupid to know that you single handedly destroyed the economy of Druckenwell.”

“Quentin!”

“Too soon?”

---

Jedi enclave archives, Salis D’aar, Bakura

Before beginning today’s reading, Elfie had searched in every database she could find in the enclave’s extensive archives, but with only a first name, “Kirile” was not a readily identifiable researcher, even if she knew she most likely did research at Republican University. Perhaps her grandmother would tell her more in the pages to come. Elfie would happily forget the whole matter if she could hear more about those two lovers that Lexine had written about.

I have been pondering lately why I have even kept journals in my life. I suppose it’s because I think I’ll probably forget the things that happen to me and want to remember them some day. Though most of the experiences I’ve had have not been particularly worthy of remembrance and the things I’ve listed about my life are things I really don’t think I’ll ever forget. So I can only conclude that I do this out of some responsibility to posterity, and one professor once saying that a lot of great beings keep journals, though not exclusively so. Ha! As if keeping a journal makes one great!

Then again...Elfie thought her grandmother’s professor might have been right.

In any event, I suppose I ought to elaborate on my experience as a radical. Going to Republican was a rather key part in the development of my liberal tendencies. Republican has a tendency to be a bit more of a liberal university than others, but that is not true of the entire student body. Considering how many rich snobs send their equally rude and rich children to Republican, there is a healthy neoconservative population there still today, who I naturally draw in my classes, thus only increasing my loathing of the vast majority of my students.

In any event, we never quite gave ourselves a name. We were alternately called bohemians, radicals, beatniks, mavericks, iconoclasts, freethinkers, avant-garde, ultramoderns, or peaceniks. In all honesty, the reason we defied labels was because we were really more a sporadic gathering of liberals who happened to find some truth in the same principles of movements gone by.

As usual, ideologies try and keep it simple, even for college students, so there were four major points that were borrowed from bygone days. They were freedom, truth, beauty, and love, and in varying orders of that for many people. Allow me to elaborate on how these principles were applied, at least by me.

Freedom became an emphasis on civil liberties. To quote a famous GFFA Senator, “To the Alliance, next to our liberty, most dear.” That is something I have not given up even now. If nothing else, my study of politics has shown that the governed must assert their rights against the state to prevent the political machine from seizing their rights. This was the first time that I realized this great truth. I remember quite clearly how stunning and shocking the revelation was.

Truth is slightly nonsensical. In past days, this meant seeing things as they really were, and this was how many of my “realist” friends saw it. Though over time, I came to find that truth is relative, and the effect of this was to cause me to begin looking at history in a different light. I realized that it’s not about what really happened, but how you spin events. The person with the more attractive spin on things wins the history textbooks, at least for a time. The idea that history is far from concrete, and the full realization of the statement that good and evil is not in black and white but in shades of gray, yellow, blue, indigo, mauve, mahogany, tangerine, puce, and crimson was groundbreaking for me.

Beauty was slightly harder for me, considering my verdigris. To an extent, the fact that I was now part of a community that did not see my skin color as an aberration was comforting and increased my sense of self-worth, though I retained my uniqueness by the virtue of those that I interacted with that did not share this same acceptance. I don’t know if I would call myself beautiful today, but I would definitely say that I no longer consider myself ugly.

Love, of course, is something that in the frenetic environment of any university flourishes and seizes upon random targets. It was at Republican that I first really loved and learned to love. However, I loved not just other people, but I learned to love political science and find that it was my calling. I found that I loved the mandoviol, which I still play today when I spare a moment or two.

I look back fondly on those “bright college days” as they’re sometimes called. They had dark spots, sure, but they were some of the better years of my life all told, which maybe explains why I went to graduate school and why I’m teaching at Republican still. Unfortunately, teaching does not replicate the experience of being a student. At least not lecturing anyways.

Freedom, beauty, truth, and love…

Elfie sat back and reflected on that. Those were attractive principles to stand for. It was certainly an idea, especially one for a student at UB Salis D’aar, to consider.

 

Great writing from the Ypres' family perspective. Keep your eyes peeled on those developments in the wilds of the galaxy.

Enjoying the twists and turns of the many branches of the Trieste family.....those roots run deep.

 

Glad you feel I'm doing them justice Vehn. I have good material to work with.

 

AzureAngel2, CPL_Macja, jcgoble3, leiamoody, NightWatcher91, spycoder9, Tim Battershell, and Vehn and because I talk limmie Jedi Gunny too. You're probably going to need the family tree of the Noble House of Trieste for this one everybody.

Trieste residence, Salis D’aar, Bakura



Kilmainham Brook was picturesque year round, but the Triestes tended not to use the wooded estate in the winter months unless they were looking for solitude (and there were many times when they did, especially Taoiseachs coping with the demands of their position). Like many prominent families, the Triestes tended to be in town when the rainy planet grew colder and snow could sometimes fall. “In town,” depending on who you were or what House you belonged could mean one of several places, but for the Triestes, who had always had at least a foot in the political arena, that town was the capital.

It was there in Salis D’aar that the Noble House of Trieste congregated as the skies grew gray and the rain sometimes turned to snow. When the year grew short in such weather, those who existed in the upper strata of society began a game of speculation and wondering. The topic was simple.

Who would be invited to the Noble House Yuletide Ball?

It was a mark of distinction to be invited to the Trieste’s residence in the capital when it was decked for the holiday. Garlands of greenery created a warm, inviting atmosphere that offset the chill outside the doors and windows. Food and drink were bountiful. It was a tradition to use the Noble House’s ancestral recipe to create copious amounts of woofle jelly cake to serve to visitors. Roast beast was carved. Razzleberry dressing was a given. Figgy pudding was traditional, if an acquired taste, though the fact that it was served flaming did give it a certain cachet.

There was dancing in the ballroom, conversation in the parlors, food strategically placed throughout, and drink on some of the frigid balconies as beings nipped out for a pinch here and there. The bedroom doors were securely locked...or at least they were supposed to be. Evening wear was standard and the whole residence was heated pleasantly to enable everyone, especially the females in their dresses, to be warm and stylish at the same time.

Suggestions from across the Noble House were taken, but ultimate authority for the guest list rested--as one would expect--with the Taoiseach. It fell to Falene to parse who would receive invitations and who would not. It was no surprise, then, that the entire roster of the Bakura Miners limmie team was invited, as they had been the last two years since Falene became Taoiseach. For the other visitors, the opportunity to hobnob with these athletic greats, the darlings of Bakura’s athletic attention, added to the allure of the event.

The talk of Salis D’aar’s upper crust was precisely which Senators (Bakuran, not Coruscant, though it was commented by one who had inadvertently made such a mistake that Gark S’rily would make a most interesting guest at the Yuletide Ball) had been invited this year. It was a curious collection to say the least. They cut across parties and the political spectrum and were very limited in number. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to them. The list, however, had been quietly insisted upon by Ayn Trieste. Falene decided to trust her sister in-law and approved the list.

“Senator,” Ayn said, kissing one of them on the cheek, “How nice of you to come.”

“My first Yuletide Ball with the Noble House. How could I refuse?”

“We would have never let you,” Ayn said, taking him by the arm and leading him gently through the throngs of people, “Senator, in the last three years you’ve struck me as a reasonable Unionist.”

“I’m so glad that you find my colleagues unreasonable,” he said dryly.

“Tisk tisk, putting words in my mouth,” Ayn chided, “but there is so much room to find common ground--and for you to get the credit. I’m interested in governing, not keeping score. I understand that you have been having trouble with some of my colleagues about a certain defense contract…”

Ayn would speak to every Senator on her list in just such a manner before the night was even half done.

---

“You know, I’m already giving you an advantage,” Cillian Lynd said as he focused up, “I only have one hand.”

“You only need one hand for darts,” Rickard Harlow said, “I don’t think that I have much of an advantage. In fact, you have two eyes so shouldn’t your aim be better than mine?”

The pair were standing on one of the balconies, their breath frosting in the air. Why they couldn’t play darts inside was an issue not considered by either, but they had commandeered a bottle of Bakuran whiskey (mainly being drunk by Cillian who was starting to prefer Corellian whiskey now that he couldn’t get Bakuran spirits out in the stars) and it seemed like the right idea.

“Quiet you,” Cillian said before throwing. He was off his mark.

“Clearly you don’t have a dartboard on that ship,” Rickard said. The comment came off very dry, but that was just Rickard’s way. The fact he put so many words together at once was indicative of his bond with Cillian.

“She’s a good ship,” Cillian said, going to the board to collect his darts, “Makes good time, decent hold. Still needs a mate if you don’t like that job my sister got you.”

“It’s a good job,” Rickard said as he squared up to throw.

“Right,” Cillian said as he leaned against the balcony and took a swig from the bottle. He was quiet as Rickard made his first throw, which wasn’t a bad one. “Thank you, by the way.”

Rickard paused in the motion of throwing his second dart. He turned his head so he could look at Cillian. “What for?”

“For keeping an eye on her,” Cillian said, casually, “She could use it.”

“I don’t…” he stopped and turned back to throw, “You’re welcome.” The dart was right on the mark.

“Good man,” Cillian said appreciatively.

---

“We’re all so excited,” Fiona said, beaming. The Admiral was not one to smile broadly, but today she had cause. “When I heard the news, I was beside myself. Nearly went out to the Consortium myself.”

“We’re all so proud,” Siona replied, “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Sierra said. She was holding Trellam’s hand tightly, perhaps a bit too tightly. “We’re so thrilled.”

“As you should be,” Fiona said, “You’re going to make me a grandmother.”

“You think you’re excited,” Trellam said, “My mother almost declared a bank holiday in the Consortium when we confirmed that we were expecting.”

“She has you beat there,” Siona told her twin sister, “just like I’ll beat you there too.”

“I thought we weren’t talking about that publicly,” Fiona said, dropping her voice.

“Talking about what?” Trellam asked.

Siona leaned in confidentially. “Let’s just say it’s...a very specific illness that’s keeping Vesper from rejoining the Monarchs.”

“Is she here tonight?” Trellam inquired, “I’d like to congratulations in the case.”

“No, she wants to keep out of the limelight for the moment. Give the kid a shot at a normal life, at least to start.”

“I’m afraid that our child isn’t going to have that opportunity, especially if it’s a girl,” Trellam said, “but that’s just the way it is.”

“Yes,” Sierra agreed, but her mind wasn’t all on the conversation. One thought nagged at her no matter how much she pushed it into the back of her brain. It came back at the most unexpected moments and right now--with her mother gushing about being on the cusp of becoming a grandmother--it came back once more.

She didn’t know whose child she was carrying.

---

It was already the fifth time tonight that Kerry Trieste was hearing it.

“Why do you want to kill limmie?”

She was going to have to talk to her daughter about the guest list. When she had been Taoiseach, she kept out people who were going to ask her stupid questions all night so she could actually enjoy herself. “I am trying to make the game safer.”

“So why don’t you suggest that all Bak10 players be in giant bubbles?” the guest asked her.

“Because they need to use their arms and I’m not trying to be ridiculous about this,” Kerry said patiently.

“Then what about a suit of armor?”

Now Kerry was wondering if this guest had been imbibing too much. The fact that it was early in the Ball was of no consequence. “Because armor--including helmets--gives the impression of invulnerability. We want to minimize the most dangerous kinds of contact.”

“So you don’t want anyone to get hurt. Kind of defeats the purpose of playing a contact sport.”

“This is about eliminating head trauma. We know what it takes to fix a knee if someone blows it out. We don’t know how to fix the mind,” Kerry continued, “We’re talking about injuries that can have a lasting effect on life quality of student athletes decades beyond when they played.”

“They know the risks when they sign up. Shouldn’t we let people kill themselves like that if they want to?”

Kerry wanted to say, We know that spice destroys a human life and it’s illegal on this and many other planets to do it, but some people find it profitable to allow that sort of thing to happen. Shouldn’t we let people kill themselves like that if they want to? Instead, Kerry pretended to see someone across the room and said, “This has been lovely, but unfortunately the Assistant Underminister for Sports and Recreation is catching my eye and I think he’d like a word with me. Have a good night.”

The former Supreme Chancellor marched over to her sister in-law Nessa, who did not hold the fictitious title of the Assistant Underminister for Sports and Recreation, and said, “Tell me you’ve got a bottle over here because if I get one more question about destroying the sport of limmie I’m going to execute what would be an illegal hit in my conference on someone.”

“You seem to forget I’m Chandrilan, not Bakuran, and I don’t have an inexhaustible supply of alcohol continually on my person,” Nessa said, “By the way, why are you destroying the sport of limmie?”

“I hate you,” Kerry said.

---

“I can’t believe you had a dress like that in your closet,” Quentin said to Corrie.

“My father believed in well-dressed beings, especially his children,” Corrie said. She was wearing a burgundy gown that was surprisingly complementary to her complexion, figure, and (this one Quentin couldn’t figure out) the color scheme of the decorations. How she’d done that he had no idea. “Just because I’m at university doesn’t mean that I’m not prepared for a fancy evening.”

“They don’t get much fancier than this,” Quentin said.

“Here, maybe, but you clearly haven’t been to a Druckenwell party with barons of industry. This is a chili cook off compared to that. Trust me when I say that they know how to do decadence,” Corrie said, “I formally came out on Druckenwell. Do you have any idea what goes into coming out in society? Well, for starters you have to--”

“Quentin, there you are! You come into town and don’t even bother to say hello to your mother,” Regan said, having finally tracked down her son. The residence remained the Eldreds’ home in the capital. They had prudently locked down the floor that they occupied to keep the revelry appropriately contained. “You can’t have come straight from the spaceport--you’re too nicely pressed for that. Slipping in without my notice?”

“I was sure I’d find you here and I could say hello then,” Quentin said.

“Who’s this?” came a flat, but accusatory reply. It was from Quentin’s younger sister, Trixie.

“This is Corrie Ypres,” Quentin introduced.

“Yes, those Ypres. The ones you’ve heard of. We’re terrible people,” Corrie said smilingly, “You must be Justice Eldred. Your son and I met at Atalanta. We ran into each other. Literally. Things went everywhere. It was mainly my fault. But also kind of his. But mainly mine.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Regan remarked dryly, seeming to pick up on Corrie’s nature, “but to one of the points you made in there, Mrs. Eldred will suffice this evening unless you intend to make a legal argument this evening.”

“I won’t,” Corrie promised, before backtracking, “Unless you’d like that. I’m sure I could come up with one.”

“Please don’t,” Regan said as nicely as possible.

“This is my sister, Patrixa, but we call her Trixie,” Quentin said, steering the conversation in a safer direction.

“You seem unreasonably happy,” Trixie said to Corrie.

“Thanks…?” Corrie tried uncertainly.

“You do know that the entire family is here, don’t you Quint?” Trixie said to her brother.

“Of course, they always are.”

“No, I mean the entire family,” Trixie repeated, motioning with her head.

Quentin turned to see one of his aunts and cousins. His face fell. “What. They never come.”

“I know, it’s so perfect,” Trixie said with the most happiness her usually dour personality allowed.

“What’s perfect?” Regan asked, her attention from the conversation having strayed. She had become occupied with the idea of marrying off her son to a member of the Ypres family. It had a certain appeal to ally the Noble House, and her branch most even more specifically.

“They’re coming this way.” She was beaming.

“Who’s this?” Corrie asked, looking around, which didn’t help as she was not at all familiar with the Noble House’s members.

“Don’t worry dear, I never keep us all straight,” Regan replied casually, craning her neck to see who her daughter was indicating. She found them. “Oh! They came this year?”

“What else were they going to do?” Trixie asked, “Not exactly a great Yuletide at Tesserone this year.”

“Good point,” Regan agreed.

“You don’t mean...” Quentin said with sudden dread.

“Regan, good to see you,” a handsome sandy haired man with a fine jaw line said. He looked about the same age as Regan. Corrie had a feeling that he had to be a Trieste and some relation. He was accompanied by a young woman with four scars on her face.

“I expect a better greeting than that from a poet,” Regan said with a smile before kissing him on the cheek, “Such an unexpected pleasure to have you with us this year. Quentin, would you care to make the introductions?” It wasn’t much of a suggestion coming from his mother.

“Uncle Oisin, my cousin May,--” this last one was added with some hesitancy, “--allow me to introduce...Corrie Ypres, my friend. I think you know his wife...Verity Vehn and his daughter, Eleanor...”

And that was how Corrie, the daughter of a family that had been part of the downfall of the RTO, came face to face with part of the family that had built up that very organization. Who also all happened to be her in-laws through the marriage of her sister.

Nobody else said anything for a moment as they looked at each other.

“So...this is awkward,” Corrie said, trying a smile to lighten the mood.

She was saved from having to say anything else by the man opposite leaning in with an outstretched hand. “So glad you could come,” Oisin said, “Pleasure to have you.”

“Glad to be here,” Corrie said, put slightly (but only slightly) more at ease as she shook his hand. Before she’d let go, she blurted out, “Can I just say for the record that my dad’s a jerk?”

That lightened the mood considerably and Oisin smiled. “I wish that my wife and eldest daughter would here. I think they’d like you a lot, Miss Ypres.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you don’t judge beings by their family. I never do,” Corrie said with relief, “I mean, except for Quentin. And you. You all are a lovely family.”

“Then clearly you don’t know us well enough yet,” Regan replied wryly.

---

Yve Loring was in her element. Thanks to her daughter Henrietta dating young Antrose Trieste (though he had just graduated from Evenvale so he was only comparatively young now that he had been thrust into the world with his degree in accountancy), a general invitation had been extended to the Lorings to the Yuletide Ball. Thankfully her husband had the good sense not to attend. That would have been awkward.

The upper strata of Gesco City was not dissimilar from that of Salis D’aar (Yve knew the Lynds socially though not well), so she felt at home with the set that collected around the Noble House. Even so, Yve could not deny that there was a definite difference to the capital’s elite. The air was more charged with power here. In Gesco City it simply reeked of credits and anyone could have access to that if you had the right net worth. The nouveau riche brought with them a certain oil that was inescapable in Gesco. Salis D’aar...here there could be no pretending. When Regan Eldred invited the Supreme Court to a party like this, that was a club in which anyone had (ostensibly) purchased their membership.

These were new horizons for Yve. There was a lot of influence to be had here, a lot of credits that could be made. It was precisely the world into which Yve had wanted her daughter to be thrust into. There were now many possibilities open to her...and to Yve.

Of course, it was also a perk that Henrietta was looking considerably more ravishing these days. She had never cleaned up well, despite her mother’s best efforts, but it seemed that her association with the young Trieste had been for the better in that respect. Granted, Yve still thought her daughter could do more with what she had, but Mrs. Loring was content to take small steps with her duckling...for the moment.

“Enjoying yourself, mother?” Henrietta asked. She knew that being in this world was important to her mother, but that this marked a new social accomplishment. It had been enough of a Yuletide gift to acquire the invitation--not that it had taken much--for her mother. Henrietta was sure that physical offerings would be completely unnecessary now.

“Quite. You certainly have found yourself a nice little niche with the Noble House,” Yve replied contentedly, “I know you don’t like to think of these things, but the opportunities open to you will be great. Nouvelle Orleans may not be the center of power, but Ronan Trieste and Mandy Syfred have been part and parcel of the revival of that city since the Civil War.” Henrietta was moving to the city with Antrose now that they had graduated, but had yet to secure employment for herself (the Lorings were not quite so rich as to support a daughter of leisure). “They were carpetbaggers once, but they’re aristocracy there now. They’ve proved their loyalty to the citizens and they give it back. Whatever you want to do with yourself, your career, they can make it happen.”

“Mother, do you ever stop thinking about that sort of thing?”

“My dear, in this world you must be a Karkarodon. If you don’t keep swimming and eating, you’ll be eaten,” Yve insisted, patting her daughter’s hand, “I’m only looking out for what’s best for you.”

“But what could be better than being in love?” Henrietta laughingly replied.

Her mother turned more serious than usual. “Antrose has said he is in love with you?”

Henrietta was silent for a moment. “That may come, in time…”

“Ah, I see,” Yve replied, “I see.”

---

“Your parents are very naughty,” former Prime Minister Sabé Dormingale told her great-granddaughter, who she was tending to in a quiet room away from the rest of the party, “They never bring you to Cape Suzette to see me, a much more beautiful city than Salis D’aar, by the way. Just because you have red hair doesn’t mean I’m going to allow your other grandmother to monopolize you. She would do well not to forget that without me, her great accomplishments would have never taken place. I was the one who got that legislation through the Senate, Shenandoah.

“And that’s what I’m going to teach you,” Sabé said to her sleeping great-granddaughter, “You’re going to understand how to get things done, when to negotiate, when to stand your ground. With me, you’re going to do things, not just talk nicely about doing them like this Noble House does.

“You see, Dormingale women are strong and hearty. We persevere. I fled Naboo when my life was in danger. I had nothing to my name other than the clothes on my back when I walked into Fionn Trieste’s campaign office--yes, him, see the holo over there on the wall, that’s him--and joined his first campaign for Prime Minister. Four years later I ran for Senate and won. I could see opportunities, I knew when to make my move. You mother knows that. I taught her that. And I’m going to teach it to you as well.

“Remember, you carry the House of Dormingale inside you. Never let the Triestes make you forget that. Even without them, you would be part of a proud and great tradition. It is yours more than anyone else. More than your father, more than your grandmother Trieste, more than your brother. It is yours alone.”

The sleeping Shenandoah did not appear to take any of this in, but Sabé Dormingale wasn’t worried about the degree to which her great-granddaughter learned all of this. She’d make sure she learned it all in due time.

---

“So many holobooks. Imagine what it a pain it must be to move them all,” Ginnifer Lynd said languidly as she reclined in the library of the residence.

“Nobody’s had to move them for decades, Ginny,” Elfie replied as she browsed the titles.

“Has anybody even read them in decades?” Ginny asked, “It seems like they’re just being wasted here.”

“Maybe, but private collections like these are part of what has kept the knowledge of the galaxy from being lost forever. Even the Jedi Archives were lost during the Purge 300 years ago. The Empire censored works, destroyed holobooks...it was terrible. Without private collectors, scientific discoveries and knowledge about the galaxy could have been lost,” Elfie said.

“I still think that public libraries are just fine,” Ginny said, “I get that it’s important to make sure we don’t lose knowledge, but still. We have the Holonet. There’s plenty of knowledge there at everyone’s fingertips.”

“The Empire censored the Holonet too,” Elfie pointed out.

Ginnifer rolled her eyes as she threw herself back into the couch on which she was laying. “Well I doubt we’re suddenly going to have someone take over the galaxy again. We probably don’t need to be worried.”

“Doesn’t hurt to have a fallback plan,” Elfie said as she ran her finger along one book spine, “You know, I wonder if the enclave archivists have ever been in here.”

“The Jedi enclave? Why?” Ginny asked.

“Oh, no reason. I’ve just been getting to know some of them recently. They’re good beings,” Elfie said.

Ginny didn’t devote too much more time to thinking about that. She was actually an avid, if not deep reader. The residence library just seemed so musty. She preferred new holobooks to what was on hand here. Her mind was far from the subject of reading at the moment. It was more concerned with where her brother had gotten. If Vesper wasn’t going to be at this party someone was going to have to keep her company. “I think I’ll leave you to them,” Ginnifer said.

“Thanks,” Elfie said absentmindedly as she pulled a holobook off the shelf and began slowly flipping through its pages, wondering what she might find. After all, these days she never knew what she was going to discover when she opened one of these things up.

---

It was not known as the Yuletide Ball for no reason. Once everyone had socialized, eaten, and drunk there was a general filtering towards the ballroom. Since this was the Noble House, live musicians had been hired for the evening to provide music and it was duly indicated that dancing was in order.

Three quarters of a century ago, the first dance at the Yuletide Ball had been comprised only of members of the Noble House. There were so many of them that they more than filled the floor. The devastation wrought by the Sith had dwindled their numbers to so few that it was not until over 50 years later that there were enough Triestes to repeat the tradition, but they’d done so ever since.

Sometimes in the holiday spirit hats were added as part of the festivities, particularly a tam with a long straight feather sticking up out of it. It seemed this was very much in vogue with the young ladies, for Ginny, Elfie, Trixie, and Jane Serena were wearing them. So many beings said that Jane Serena should wear them more often, especially when she curled her hair like that.

Ayn took a much different approach, going for a fur hat. “Isn’t it so very ridiculous?” she said whenever someone compliments her on it.

Tonight’s first dance was a jig and it required the dancers to be in pairs. This was not a problem for the married couples like Siona and Dorian, Atticus and Regan, Ronan and Mandy, Declan and Ayn, and Sierra and Trellam. Those in steady relationships like Henrietta and Antrose or Kerry and Galactic Senator Gavin Serling were similarly provided for. For everyone else had to sort for themselves.

Some had quietly planned in advance. As Taoiseach, Falene would be in the lead couple, so she had judiciously secured the services of Kettin Hervey, the rookie half back from the Miners, for the dance. Jane Serena, who had adoring fans even at this party, safely chose her brother Enoch. Oisin paired off with his daughter May.

For everyone else it was a mad scramble.

Cillian swept a blonde in a white dress away from a conversation. “You look like you’ll do just fine, love,” he said roguishly, not giving her much choice in the matter--not that she was objecting too hard.

Fiona imposed upon one of the Senators who had been invited to the event while Trixie Eldred grabbed Miner full back Horst Penn. “I love dancing!” Horst said, “Is this one of those dances where you just do whatever you want?”

“No,” Trixie said, “It’s actually extremely complicated.”

“That might be a problem.”

“Just follow my lead.”

“Oh I used to do this all the time on Druckenwell,” Corrie said reassuringly, “It’s been years since I tripped while dancing.”

“Years?” Quentin said as he took up position across from Corrie.

“Okay, months,” Corrie admitted.

“Months?”

“Maybe weeks.”

There was a mad clattering of heels as Ginny, late from somewhere or other, streaked into the room. She was four strides out onto the dance floor before she realized she needed a partner. She grabbed the closest familiar face--or rather half face.

“But I don’t dance,” Rickard said.

“We’re changing that right now,” Ginny said in haste.

“You know when you invited me to this, you didn’t say that all of Salis D’aar was going to watch us dance,” the second year literature teacher from Nessa’s high school said.

“There’s no such thing as a free dinner,” Nessa told her unwitting victim with a smile.

Finally, Elfie brought up the rear as the last couple with a young gentleman in dress uniform with the Marines. “Do you know how to do a jig?” she asked, having just met him.

“They didn’t exactly teach that at the Academy,” he replied.

“Maybe we’ll have to ask Aunt Fiona about adding that to the curriculum.”

“Huh?”

“My Aunt Fiona? Down there? She’s the Superintendent of the Fleet Academy,” Elfie said, pointing.

The young office blanched. He had not been expecting that this evening, it seemed.

By then, the music started and the two lines clasped hands with the beings next to them and skipped forward towards their partners before parting again. After doing this a couple of times they took the hands of their partners and circled each other. From there it was a complex pattern of couples going down the aisle and winding up on bottom after being on top, diagonal exchanges of partners, lots of bouncing, and general merriment.

“Mrs. Trieste,” Declan said to his wife as they circled in the middle of the line.

“Mr. Trieste,” she replied.

“You’re a very good dancer,” Falene told Kettin as they twirled at another point.

“I took dance class in middle school. Helped my footwork,” the big half back said.

“You Bakurans love your dancing,” Gavin told Kerry while they went from top couple to the bottom.

“The drinking helps,” she replied.

Everyone else just smiled.

---

As the ball began to wind down, Falene looked a little rumpled in her dark blue dress. She’d been on her feet almost the entire evening and was now enjoying the opportunity to slouch on a couch with a glass of bubbly in her hand.

“You should be thankful Mom chose me and not you,” she said to her brother, “So many people to meet. It’s worse than a fan event.”

“Yeah, but all this and more is yours,” Declan said from his place on the couch next to her. He was similarly exhausted--and he hadn’t even been doing the networking that had occupied his wife this evening. He knew she was doing things behind the scenes--he just didn’t know what. The truth of it all was that he was fine not knowing what either. All he knew was that Ayn was going to get the farm bill he needed if he was going to be reelected through. “Don’t forget that.”

“What do I need all this for?” Falene asked, “I’m a professional athlete. I have enough credits. I have a nice apartment. I don’t need this place or Kilmainham Brook or the beach house. Isn’t there a point where you’re rich enough?”

“Someone should have told that to Xim the Despot,” Declan said.

“I think they did and he killed them,” Falene said, “Nobody’s going to kill me, I’m the Taoiseach.”

“Well, you got the Miners. That’s all Mom really wanted,” Declan said.

“No, Mom wanted to be Commissioner. That’s why I got the Miners,” Falene pointed out.

“Yeah, but she wanted you to have them,” Declan said.

“It’s not like she didn’t want you to have other things,” Falene said rolling her head in fatigue over to look at Declan, “It’s just that she couldn’t split it up.”

“Only because she swore some oath, the contents of which I don’t even know.” Declan didn’t seem to feel that was a very convincing reason.

“It might seem silly, but our traditions are what make us us. Without tradition, we wouldn’t have a Yuletide Ball--” Falene motioned to the party petering out before them, “--or a Yuletide. We wouldn’t have Truce Day. We wouldn’t have much. We’d just have life with no cycles, nothing to look forward to. It’d be a lot of chaos.” Falene paused. “There’d be no Senate either.”

“Fair enough,” Declan said with a smile. He raised his glass. “To tradition.”

“To tradition,” Falene said, clinking her glass with a pleasingly resonant sound with her brother.

 

Great writing. And Sierra is pregnant!

 

I really enjoy these posts every year. A great snapshot of all the Trieste,and now Ypres, Dormingale, and Vehn clans.....well done!

 

Thank you both. It's my pleasure to give fictional characters a little holiday cheer.

 

AzureAngel2, CPL_Macja, jcgoble3, leiamoody, NightWatcher91, spycoder9, Tim Battershell, and Vehn

Nouvelle Orleans, Bakura

Henrietta opened the door to her apartment. Well, her was a little bit of a strong word. She lived there with Antrose, yes, but the rent was currently being subsidized by his parents. With both of them graduated from Evenvale they’d had to make a decision about where to live. Henrietta didn’t have particular career plans, so she wasn’t wedded to a particular place. Indeed, since coming to Nouvelle Orleans Henrietta had secured a position in the administrative pool with one of the financial firms. It wasn’t exactly what she had in mind when she got her degree in History, but it was a start. The fact that Mr. Trieste had been kind enough to make some inquiries had smoothed her path. It had been Mr. and Mrs. Trieste’s suggestion that she and Antrose live in Nouvelle Orleans, where they had connections in business and society.

“You have to live somewhere, and that somewhere can here,” Mrs. Trieste said, “We do enjoy having our family around as much as possible. Jane Serena is gone for so long on tours now so it’s good to have the boys in town. I hope you don’t mind not being near your mother, Henrietta.”

Henrietta most certainly did not. Some distance between her and Yve Loring was good for their relationship.

What surprised Henrietta was that Antrose had not accepted similar help from his father in finding a position. In fact, he had been adamant against doing so. “I need to stand on my own two legs in business,” Antrose had told Henrietta one night on their couch, “I can’t start my career having been put there by my father.”

“I understand, but you know it was such a help having him get me on at the firm,” Henrietta said, “I couldn’t have gotten that job without him.”

“I know, but I want to build my own reputation in finance. I don’t want to be hanging on his coattails, which I’ll always be if I take his help now,” Antrose insisted.

Now, as Henrietta returned to the apartment, she had one question on her mind. “Antrose!” she called, “How was the interview?” Well, two questions, really. “Have you started dinner?”

Her boyfriend came out from the kitchen. “We’re going out tonight,” he said with a broad smile.

“You mean you got it?” Henrietta said excitedly.

“I got it.”

Henrietta squealed and hugged her young man. “Oh that’s wonderful! And it was all on your own?”

“Yes.”

“I’m so proud! Who is it with?”

---

Earlier that day

“I’m here to apply for the bookkeeping position,” Antrose said.

The human at the front desk looked up at the young, professionally dressed man. “We have a bookkeeper.”

“Tell your boss that Antrose Trieste is here.”

The name meant nothing to the human and it showed in his face. Not even the vaunted name of Trieste seemed to cause any recognition to glint in his eye. Still, he picked up a comm and relayed the message.

“Send him back,” came the reply.

Antrose walked through one of the main warehouses of ELT Shipping, a small import/export firm that was of no consequence. There was a reason for that. He took a lift up to a decent, but not extremely well appointed, office. Behind the smallish desk was an unassuming human male.

“I don’t usually get social calls from members of the Noble House, and never ones from those peddling services,” the human said.

“Mr. Naski,” Antrose began, “Apologies for the unannounced visit, but I thought you would appreciate a bold statement. May I sit?” The human motioned for Antrose to do so and the young man took the seat. “I am perfectly aware of the nature of your business.”

“I didn’t know that the Triestes had interest in import/export.”

“We don’t, nor does my family have an interest in the small time crime that you launder through this warehouse and your other ones,” Antrose said.

“That’s a very dangerous accusation,” Naski growled, leaning forward.

“Oh, I don’t judge. It’s why I’m here,” Antrose said, “How much do you know about my family? Probably about my aunt and some of them. Perhaps you even know that once my father was the head of one of the most important financial conglomerates in the galaxy, the Eden Banking Group. My great-grandmother, Serena Kattan, the former Chancellor, held a large block of those shares. She supported my father’s bid, using Noble House shares, to become CEO at the annual shareholder meeting once, many years ago. The problem was that when my great-grandmother died, he lost that control. Resigned preemptively because the shares got distributed and he didn’t have the same bloc of support.

“You see, my father is a brilliant man. A financial mind like none other. And what is he doing now? Head of Fidelity Fiduciary Bank here in Nouvelle Orleans. Not even an interstellar chain. Just a local Bakuran outfit,” Antrose said. The contempt in his voice was palpable. “He played by the rules and what did he get? Kicked down to third-rate status. Mr. Naski, I am not going to be my father.”

“Good for you kid,” Naski said flippantly.

“No, I’m going to make a lot of credits. A very lot of credits, and I’m going to do it with you,” Antrose said.

“And what makes you think you can?” Naski appeared to be intrigued by this.

“Because I’ve just obtained a degree in accountancy. I took courses in forensic accounting as part of it. Do you know what I learned? Bakura is a relatively permissive society. You can do a lot of things here completely legally. But there’s always a catch. If it’s not legal somewhere else and it’s legal here, then the Federal Union is going to tax it to high heaven. They will get their slice. My Grandfather Fionn and Aunt Kerry saw to that. That’s why crime doesn’t pay on Bakura and why you’re small time.”

“I’d be careful about the allegations you’re making.”

“This is merely a statement of fact,” Antrose said, “and my preface to saying that crime can pay, if you’ve got the right accountant. You see, if you can do things under the table and keep your books in order so the Exchequer never knows what you’re doing, you can undercut the legal operations and make a lot of credits.”

“Perhaps even a very lot of credits?” Naski asked.

“Absolutely a very lot of credits if you have someone smart.”

“Smart like you?”

“Yes, now that you mention it.”

“It’s a risky proposition. I don’t know you and I have to believe that you’re as good as you say you are,” Naski said.

“Give me seed money. I’ll show you how good I am at no risk to you,” Antrose said, “and at all profit. Consider it my...probation period. If you don’t like my work, fire me.”

“‘Fire me...’ I like that turn of phrase,” Naski said, “Though we prefer terminations around here.”

“I understand completely, Mr. Naski,” Antrose said without blinking.

---

“ELT Shipping, an import/export company. I think there’s a lot of growth potential. They’re going to start me on a trial basis, but I know I’m going to do great,” Antrose explained. The barest details were sufficient for Henrietta’s knowledge.

“Well that’s wonderful. Dinner out it is!” Henrietta declared, “We should celebrate properly. A new beginning.”

“Absolutely, a new beginning,” Antrose agreed.

 

AzureAngel2, CPL_Macja, jcgoble3, leiamoody, NightWatcher91, spycoder9, Tim Battershell, and Vehn I forgot to get you your usual dose of Lexine Wydra's journal. Apologies!

A normal day. Not much to write about. Except Galeon, I suppose. And he really didn’t count. He was a quasi-friend of mine at Republican. Unlike Fiyen, he didn’t really love me. He sort of liked me, but that was an outgrowth of the fact that we worked very closely on our theses for our undergrad degrees. So it was only natural that eventually he should ask if I wanted to catch dinner. And then we kept catching dinner. Before we knew it, we were suddenly feeling more for each other than either of us intended.

I should step back for a moment here. In retrospect, I think that I helped fuel things to a certain degree. After all, at that time the stress of things had gotten to be so much that I’d been dying for something, anything, to be a light to me. I desperately wanted someone or something to cling to, and Galeon became that someone for me and I never realized it until it had happened.

Galeon didn’t mind the interesting twist of events. After all, back then there was something avant garde about hanging out with people who didn’t exactly fit in, almost as if to thumb one’s nose at the galaxy for shunning them in the first place. If you wound up dating someone like that, then so much the better for your liberal image. After a while, he even didn’t mind holding hands. It was, naturally, the first time I’d ever done something like that and it was thrilling. Everything was new for me, and yet it was old for him. It really wasn’t a fair relationship in the sense that I was no better than an adolescent girl at times, but I suppose it would be better than me doing that now, a doctor of political science.

Naturally a relationship like that, which was never built on a really sturdy foundation, had little chance of sustaining itself. It was crushing to me when things ended, but after a couple weeks I dried my tears and moved on. I accepted it as being the natural way of things, and then sunk into a self-debasing state of mind for several weeks. It’s easy to say, “How could he have ever loved me?” when you’re green, because the very facts of your life confirm such things. You need no other emotional circumstances to set such things up in a circumstance like mine, just the spark of an event to start the descent into a quagmire.

I suppose this is where I must mention that it was Chancellor Exner, then professor and Chair of the political science department, who almost literally slapped me around and told me to snap out of it. He was well aware of things between Galeon and me (I was always surprised when professors knew about what I felt were the mundane details of existence of students and that they weren’t continuously concerned with contemplating the great questions of existence) and told me I was too good to moon over someone second-rate like Galeon. In retrospect, he was second-rate. He’s probably a middle manager somewhere in the corporate machine of the galaxy with a wife and 1.6 kids back on his generic Mid-Core homeworld.

But then again, I’m a spinster with a doctorate stuck in the low levels of academia eking out a living in the bustling capital of the galaxy with almost no acquaintances or friends, just another person in a sea of dirty, nameless faces scraping for some subsistence. I have no security, no safety net, and I feel as if despite my tidy, shared office tucked away in the political science department, I could careen off into the vacuum of space at any moment.

Wow. I just read all that. I’m becoming depressed and morbid. It’s time to end now.

Elfie knew what Lexine had been saying when she was surprised about professors being aware of the mundane things of life. This was her grandmother, a future Jedi Master, waxing maudlin over an early, insignificant love affair. This wasn't what your grandmother was supposed to be like! They were supposed to have everything together, to be adults! Lexine didn't sound that much different from her. Then again, Elfie wasn't entirely sure how old her grandmother was when she dated Fiyen. Probably in graduate school from the sound of things, which meant she was a little older than she was right now, but maybe not that much more.

It caused Elfie to think--if this was what her grandmother went through around her age, maybe there were great things in her future as well...

 

AzureAngel2, CPL_Macja, jcgoble3, leiamoody, NightWatcher91, spycoder9, Tim Battershell, Vehn, and a special tag for Runjedirun since she'll find I reference Ralltiir later on.

The Rivers, Gesco City, Bakura

With Yuletide behind them, things quieted down considerably for one of Bakura’s most prominent department stores. The Yuletide sale was quite important to the bottom line of the chain and the word that had come down from upstairs was that this year’s had gone well. It was a relief to the folks down at the loading dock that things had gone well “on the floor” as they called it. Thanks to the philosophy practiced by Mr. Rivers, the loading crew viewed themselves as part of that success. Though they hadn’t been part of the selling, they’d still gotten the much-loved purchases to homes throughout the city.

With even the after Yuletide sale behind them, there was a temporary lull at The Rivers that they were enjoying as they handled a smaller than usual number of orders moving through the warehouse.

“At least until they come up with the next cracking idea,” one of them observed, “Rivers doesn’t like resting on his laurels. He’s probably already got the marketing team thinking of how to get everyone’s attention again.”

“And if I know him, he’ll have Ginny Lynd on it.”

“He’s been having her do windows lately. Not a bad job of it either. Classy.”

“Aye, that it is. You’d think someone as posh as her would be in touch with that kind of thing.”

“Oh don’t go putting her on a pedestal. You’ve heard about her ways. Out every other night with the rest of the rich set. Figures. She’s a Trieste you know. They say Falene Trieste swims in a pool of credit chips.”

“As long as she plays limmie like that and keeps winning Galactic Cups with the Miners, I don’t care if she does!” There was a good laugh about that sentiment.

“But Ginny Lynd, I don’t understand why she works here. She spends credits like they’re going out of style. If I spent money like she did I couldn’t afford it on twice my salary.”

“And you know she doesn’t make twice what we make. More, yes, but not that much. Must be nice when you’ve got a trust fund to your name to draw from. Ah, if I had a trust fund…”

Pushing a hoversled with some boxes for shipping, Rickard had heard all of the chatter, but not partaking of it. It had gotten him thinking. If Ginny was spending that profusely and making as much as they speculated, Rickard wasn’t sure how she could afford it. He’d learned enough at the dinner table conversations of the Lynd family to know that while they did well for themselves, they weren’t as exceedingly wealthy as his coworkers were speculating they were. Falene Trieste had the pursestrings of the Noble House fortune. Rickard knew that the answer to the question that one of his coworkers had posed—why Ginnifer had to work—was because Falene Trieste didn’t give her family enough money to be idle. Enough to supplement their incomes so they could pursue work they enjoyed, but not enough to live on—at least not in the style that Ginny was accustomed to.

As Rickard lugged packages into the back of a hover van, his mind quietly worked.

---

By the Force! What cheeky beings students can be sometimes! Every semester I always catch one of them muttering some reference to my hue. They’re promptly rewarded with an abysmal grade on their final, which I can justify by the student’s repeated absences and lack of participation in class. Luckily such rude students leave themselves open to my ire through their own negligence. The smart ones know to hold their tongues.

In any event, I suppose I should talk about Fiyen Wintt now, seeing as I went over Galeon. As I already noted, Fiyen and I were really in love. Naturally I was in love with him before he was with me. However, it wasn’t a case of him accepting it like it was with Galeon. Instead he really did fall in love with me in turn.

I’m getting ahead of myself. My roommate in college for the first year was Gwendilyne Verdulli, the daughter of Senator Verdulli from Ralltiir, one of the powerful Core Worlds near Coruscant, and oddly enough not far from Brentaal and Chandrilla. She always viewed me with a token amount of pity. Except when her term papers needed editing (which was often) and the edits were substantial (which was equally as often). I suppose she still feels guilty about how things were between us, so she occasionally invites me to some of her high society events where I usually wind up sitting in a corner, usually with some crone. I’ve nearly gotten extremely inebriated at these parties, but my pride won’t let me get too far. And though I’d like to not help assuage her guilty conscience, I go to these things anyway and have an awful time.

Anyways, it’s really sort of horrible, but I met Fiyen when he dated Gwendilyne first. He was so awfully good looking that our dear coquette Gwendilyne couldn’t resist trying out her womanly charms and flowing blonde hair on Fiyen. Who could resist that? Of course, after a couple months they were through. Gwendilyne has always been like that, and still is, I think, which is why she’s still fishing for some influential man to vault herself into even higher political circles.
Fiyen was a little shallow when I first met him as well, which is why I think he and Gwendilyne made such a match together. We ran into each other years later, doing graduate work, long after I’d moved out of the dorms and gotten a little private flat (well, really, it was a closet) away from Gwendilyne and the over-excited hubbub of college. Well, for some reason Fiyen sat next to me for the entire semester. I never figured out why, and he never told me. But we would casually talk before class. Such things occur naturally, whether or not you want them to. And as we talked, I found that Fiyen wasn’t quite as shallow as I thought, or he’d changed since he’d last left the room Gwendilyne and I shared. He was much more knowledgeable than I’d assumed, and definitely wasn’t the typical jock or rich boy that I usually encountered at Republican.
In other words, Fiyen was a nice guy. And that was enough for me. More importantly, I think that he penetrated below my skin and saw that I was a nice girl, who was really quite insecure because of her lack of social experiences, one slight relationship aside. And as a result, Fiyen for some reason fell in love with me, head over heels.

I think I’d better stop for now and write more later. This requires two sittings.

Elfie was aghast. “No! Keep going!” she exclaimed. And then she realized that she could and promptly did so.

 

Guilty.

 

I know, I'm terrible to you.

 

Bakuran Senate Offices, Salis D’aar, Bakura

This was it. This was the meeting. The one that would decide everything. Ayn knew that was not an overstatement. If she did not pull this off, her husband’s chances for reelection would plummet. If she did, this would go down in history as one of the greatest legislative bargains ever made in the Senate. However, she well knew that history did not record such dealings. Her footprint in history would be invisible. Enough Senators, however, would know what she had done. That was what important. This would do much as much for her as it would for her husband.

Quite conveniently, actually.

Why was this meeting different from any other she’d had (and she had had many on this very topic)? Because she was sitting in the office of the Minority Leader, the highest ranking member of the rival Union Party. They both knew that there was little reason why she would have any interest in helping a freshman Senator from one of the most liberal districts on Bakura. Their interests likely didn’t coincide.

“I am here to offer you something that you have wanted for a very, very long time,” Ayn said, the formalities of tea completed.

“You can offer all you want, but I don’t think you can deliver,” the Minority Leader said.

“If my grandmother was sitting here in your office, you’d think she could deliver, wouldn’t you?”

The Minority Leader smiled. “Have you recently become the Deputy Prime Minister like her?” There was condescension lying beneath her tone.

“I am my Grandmother’s daughter,” Ayn said, “and I’m here to give you a huge win. You’re going to be your party’s parliamentary leader for years after this. You could probably even get the nomination for Prime Minister next year if you want.”

She was still not convinced. “Then, please, tell me what you’d so kindly like to give me that will do this.”

“A 3% reduction in the corporate tax rate,” Ayn said without blinking.

The Minority Leader leaned forward from behind her desk. “You know as well as I do that your leadership has no interest in doing that and that it would never get out of committee.”

“I guarantee you a floor vote on that exact measure. I will get it out of the Finance Committee and on the floor. And I will deliver you a bloc of votes from my side of the aisle, including mine and my husband’s, to pass it. And then the Prime Minister will sign it.”

“Why?” the Minority Leader asked very suspiciously.

“Because you are going to give me this and everyone’s going to be happy,” Ayn said, sliding a bill across the Minority Leader’s desk.

---

Once again, a normal day, although Kirile and I went through the Tion Cluster files and decided that it’s not of much use. We can make our points better through other examples.
While Fiyen finished his master’s degree, he moved in with me. It was really the only time I’ve ever had a man living with me. At the time, I didn’t think of the ramification of the fact that he moved in with me, and not the other way around. Looking back on it, it seems rather odd. Usually the male in a relationship takes the role of providing habitation in most natural and sentient cases. However, Fiyen was the one who asked if he could come live with me, which has always made me think that he either didn’t want to move me from what he assumed was the security of my own home or that he wanted to be a part of who I was so much that it included leaving part of himself behind.

In any event, by this point we were seriously in love with each other. I was far from the blushing schoolgirl of the days from when I was mooning over Galeon (I suppose that it was more of entanglement than anything else), and it was a rather quiet love we shared at times. Mundane moments were elevated to the importance of world events for us. I once read of such a thing being called “the transfiguration of the commonplace” or something like that. I still distinctly remember so many little things like breakfast on some random morning and each of us writing at the end of a table in the library when we imposed a forced separation so we could each get our work done.

But along with the little things there were also the big things. After all, I wouldn’t think it much of a stretch of the imagination to call what Fiyen and I had a torrid love affair. I’d always wanted one, and I got one, the details of which shall remain known only to Fiyen and myself. There are certain things that posterity need not know. But I will give this to the future and whoever happens to read my humble account of little interest: maybe we were crazy, but we were crazy about each other and it was fun to be crazy.

Elfie was not sure if she was grateful that her grandmother had decided to keep these things private or if she was disappointed. After all, this was her grandmother…and she had to admit she had a slight curiosity about it. Though, perhaps it was for the best. She read on.

We both attained our master’s degree and the morning after we’d officially received them, he told me the next morning that his family was expecting him to return home to Thyferra with his degree so that he could take the helm of the family business. I was shocked and stunned. Even now I feel my heart being jolted just like the first time. I still to this day remember no lessening of his love in the dates preceding that statement. And nothing changed even as he said it and afterwards.

It was a very neat affair, really, his leaving. It happened a week later, and by that time we’d packed everything into boxes and sent it ahead of him to Thyferra. It was agreed that we would say goodbye in the apartment instead of in the spaceport. We both felt that if things were going to be messy, it would be better if they were messy in private. We didn’t really say much of anything. After all, I’d cried enough already in the preceding week. We hugged and then he said goodbye and said he was sorry again. I stood there, really unable to do anything else as he walked out and closed the door. There was nothing that kept me from running after him to Thyferra. But for some reason we both knew that for whatever reason, our paths were supposed to diverge here. I was to become a doctor of political science, and he was to go off and take up his father’s mantle.

Except that’s not what happened. The freighter he took back was attacked and destroyed by some marauders. I’ve never cared enough to remember their name. For some reason I blamed myself. I figured this was probably a result of the politics that Fiyen and I had been involved in. I don’t know why, but the few times I’d gotten enough energy to do any research I’d found that the pirates had some political spin to them. Apparently Fiyen had been a target of theirs because of his prominence on Thyferra through his family’s holdings there.

As you can imagine, I was crushed when I learned of his death. So much so that I didn’t do anything for two days: eat, sleep, drink, have contact with the outside world. I never even bothered to turn the glowlamps on. I am haunted by the memory of lying in that old, half-empty flat alone and wondering what I’d do now that Fiyen was gone. In a way, I still don’t know how I’ve dragged myself through the last three years. But I remember that I went home as it was the end of the semester, merely moving through life. When the melancholy reached its peak, I went into the empty plains of Chandrila and cried aloud to the sky, “Why? What sadistic force controls the galaxy that would take so much from me and leave me broken and shattered? Why should Fiyen and I be punished for having ideals and wanting to change the galaxy for the better?” As the melancholy subsided, it turned into anger. I called out to the wind, “All right, enough! So be it then!” And, despite myself, I fell to the ground sobbing.

Though I still have my convictions, I lost my idealism with Fiyen. I cannot go back to the same social activism that I engaged in with him. I strive to change academia’s way of thinking to give myself purpose and use the talents I have been gifted with. I will leave changing the galaxy for the slight chance to change the young intellectuals I see pass through the halls of Republican. I hope they will not be broken like I am.

Elfie couldn’t imagine what that must have been like. Crushing, no doubt, but how does one survive that emotionally? It certainly left a mark on her grandmother by her own admission. Was this what the galaxy did to beings? Why did it single out a woman like her grandmother? Was this the price she had to pay to be a great Jedi Master later?

Such questions were not answered by the text before her.

 

Some very intriguing political maneuvering. And Elfie's getting into some very deep thoughts.

 

I'd like to think that learning more about a grandmother she never knew is taking a relatively ordinary, if intelligent, young woman and challenging her in a great many areas. One might be tempted to say the education she's receiving through this reading is more important than the one she's getting at UBSD.

 

I would tend to agree with that.