Saga "The Wrong Side of History" | Dear Diary Challenge 2018

Very mysterious. Memoirs of a Naboo queen to ponder on, meeting a stranger. Can´t wait for more! I am glad that you continue.

(PS: By the way my long wait for my husband will be over soon, right on time for the Loreena McKennitt concert here in Berlin. PPS: As for not being able to go anywhere as you where: trust the public transport of Berlin being troublesome on the very day of the concert with a strike.)

 

PAGE TWO.

Now that I've gotten that out of the way, I have a brief note before I get to the replies: I haven't been much following the ongoing Favorites of Fanfiction Festival, but I did notice a while ago that this story was submitted, anonymously via PM, as a story more people ought to be reading. Whoever that was, I thank you.

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Findswoman: Wonderful to see another’s update from you—between this and “Water Flowing Underground,” you’ve been on quite a roll lately!

Thanks! I haven't been writing as much lately (short story made shorter yet--I'm stuck with a logjam of multiple stories in progress right now, and it's all I can do to squeak out a few sentences every week or so) but I do have a post for this in progress, and hopefully it shall see the light of the boards before 2020.

There’s a lot going on in this entry—color me very curious about this upstartish (!) young woman who knows Imogen’s name despite her (Imogen’s) attempts to keep a low profile. What is it that she wants to speak to Imogen about? Something obviously pretty sensitive, I’m guessing. Though she didn’t exactly get off on the right foot with Imogen first—well, I guess neither of them did with each other. Her questions to Imogen about her book, about Queen Elisandra’s memoirs, etc., clearly were just a front—or were they? It may be a case of both-and rather than either-or.

You should find out quite soon (as in the next entry) why this young woman approached Imogen, so no spoilers. And yes, they really didn't begin on good terms with each other, either of them--and their conversation on the royal memoir, whatever its origins, shows already they have nearly incompatible worldviews. You'll have to see how that continues in the upcoming scene.

As to that haughty portrait of Imogen’s grandmother... well, I think there may be some respects in which Imogen takes after both her and her dad, which will no doubt play out in this journal.

That's no doubt true--and I think Imogen shows some of that familial likeness in that conversation with the upstart young woman in the shelves. And considering (I suppose this isn't too much of a spoiler) the father she takes after was the man responsible for the destruction of an entire planet, I suspect she has conflicted feelings on the matter.

Of which I definitely hope you will continue to give us more—don’t be a stranger, because it’s always good to see you and your work here!

Thanks, and thanks for reading and commenting!

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AzureAngel2: Very mysterious. Memoirs of a Naboo queen to ponder on, meeting a stranger. Can´t wait for more! I am glad that you continue.

Imogen's meeting with this Upstart Young Woman has definitely added mystery, though some of that, at the least, should be cleared up when they meet at the kaffahouse.

(PS: By the way my long wait for my husband will be over soon, right on time for the Loreena McKennitt concert here in Berlin. PPS: As for not being able to go anywhere as you where: trust the public transport of Berlin being troublesome on the very day of the concert with a strike.)

I am glad to hear that--though it has taken me so long to get to writing this comment, you are no doubt already reunited by now. I hope you enjoyed the concert, though I know what you mean about public transit strikes, even when necessary, having bad timing: the public transit in the city where I lived for graduate school went on strike *literally the day after* I turned in the final copies of my thesis and finally had time to get out again.

Thanks for reading and commenting!

 

Oh my husband is to travel to the Netherlands every 4 weeks to get a medical checkup at the university hospital due to his new kidney. But I am very busy with my job, family matters & my RL friends.

Anyway, I hope you do write on soon.

 

AzureAngel2: I don't know much of anything about getting an organ transplant (although I have heard my aunt's husband, having survived near death and liver failure several years ago, is at the point where he will need a new liver, and that is a long list to be on) though I do know that obviously it's quite serious. But it does sound like you have a lot to keep you busy.

As for more of this story: I can say that I have just this very night finished a post, and it's a longer one (to almost make up for the fact that I last posted in March), and you won't have to wait until 2020 to see it.

 

Wow, a fanfic exploring someone's personal tribulations as a civilian during the Rise of the Empire! Since my "return" to caring about Star Wars, I've been interested in life during this period: how did everyday people deal with the massive galactic events going on? Bills sill had to be paid, people still loved (and lost), and Peter Cushing's brilliant performance as Grand Moff Tarkin meant that Tarkin was the Empire until the Emperor was officially introduced in ESB.

I will continue reading your story!

 

I finally finished all the entries, and I am blown away by this series. Its prose reminds me of some Napoleonic Era novels/letters/memoirs I have read.

I have been intellectually curious if someone ever (successfully) did a Star Wars story that didn't involve lightsabers, blasters or the battlefield. Your work is a new perspective on an established canon, and I had similar feelings when reading Vanity Fair vs the Sharpe or Hornblower series: what was going on in England during the Napoleonic Wars? While Wellington was beating the French in Spain, what was his wife Kitty doing?

It is often good to get away from swashbuckling blaster or lightsaber battles and see a less epic, but more human, story. My compliments to Pandora for "Vanity Fair in Space!"

 

starbuck_archer: Wow, a fanfic exploring someone's personal tribulations as a civilian during the Rise of the Empire! Since my "return" to caring about Star Wars, I've been interested in life during this period: how did everyday people deal with the massive galactic events going on? Bills sill had to be paid, people still loved (and lost), and Peter Cushing's brilliant performance as Grand Moff Tarkin meant that Tarkin was the Empire until the Emperor was officially introduced in ESB.

Well, I don't know that I would say that Imogen is an ordinary civilian (since she is from the House of Tarkin and hence "born to privilege") but she is a civilian. And I have always been interested in the sort of everyday people who are not going to be in the movies, except perhaps as out-of-focus background figures played by local extras--and yes, that is probably because I was trained up in literary realist writing in an MFA program.

That is so true about Tarkin (and it didn't hurt that he was played by an actor as skilled at playing villains as Peter Cushing--"And there's Peter in his slippers, acting evil...") When I was little, I was scared of Darth Vader, but really, Tarkin is probably the definitive Star Wars villain for me. It's no wonder that when I originally decided to create a character who was the daughter (MARY SUE!) of one of the "bad guys" that I choose him.

I finally finished all the entries, and I am blown away by this series. Its prose reminds me of some Napoleonic Era novels/letters/memoirs I have read.

Thank you! I must say that I wouldn't have thought there was any resemblance to writing from the Napoleonic War era--aside from the fact that I have been dead sick of the English Regency for nearly twenty years now, it feels very definitely of the 20th century cold war era to me--but I do find interesting what different people see in my writing.

(Though I am fairly certain that Old Maids of Good Breeding of that time--and since Imogen is thirty-seven, she would be right there on the shelf--would not ever ever give anyone the finger.)

I have been intellectually curious if someone ever (successfully) did a Star Wars story that didn't involve lightsabers, blasters or the battlefield. Your work is a new perspective on an established canon, and I had similar feelings when reading Vanity Fair vs the Sharpe or Hornblower series: what was going on in England during the Napoleonic Wars? While Wellington was beating the French in Spain, what was his wife Kitty doing?

I have written more than a few stories where there isn't a lightsaber, blaster, or space battle to be seen--and yes, in Star Wars. (This story is probably unusual in that it has several direct connections to the story of the original trilogy, even if no one flies to another planet with more ease than it takes me to travel to a town an hour away.) I'm just not interested in writing about those things. I should probably have been escorted from the premises of this message board some time ago, but it turns out, when there isn't the need to make money on the line, you really can do nearly anything you want.

It is often good to get away from swashbuckling blaster or lightsaber battles and see a less epic, but more human, story. My compliments to Pandora for "Vanity Fair in Space!"

Again, thank you--and thank you for reading and commenting!

 

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I don’t think I have ever written about my father before this. Of course (and I write that so easily) I wasn’t close with him. None of us were—regardless of what Prunella has decided to believe now that he’s dead. As far back as I can remember my life, he was most often away, for months of time, with the fleet. When he was the governor, and stationed in the City, I was on another planet at university. I wouldn’t have ever said I missed him. It was always nerve-wracking to be in his presence, and actually speaking with him was worse. He treated nearly every conversation I ever had with him as a battle of the wits—where I had to be prepared, each time I spoke, to defend myself. He was the same with Rohan.

Oh, and he had this way of smiling, this little amused smirk, when he thought I was being particularly stupid—and he used it when I was thirty just as he had when I was seventeen. That was when I knew what I should expect when he deigned to speak.

I believe Mon Mothma was quoted as saying, when she was still in the Senate, and there was still a senate for her to be seen in, that he was a “heartless skeleton held together only by the stiffness of his uniform.” Or something to that effect.

Regardless of whether or not I resemble my grandmother, his mother, I have his coloring: his winter-blue eyes and reddish blonde hair. And an imitation, anyhow, of his nose. My grandmother was right enough when she said (in the underwater dark blur of a midsummer party, the month I turned eleven) There’s no doubt. That one is her father’s daughter.

My father did not impart much advice to me, but I can remember one time when he did. I had just finished my first term at my new secondary school, where I had been having difficulties with a certain pack of girls in my year. I won’t write about the actual details, except that Rosaleen Hurt was far too impressed with the heaps of money her mother had made with her communications business. I had been home, on a break from all of it, for a mere day when he made one of his rare appearances, on an unscheduled leave from the wars.

Astoria, I overheard him saying to my mother, while I was in the blue rose parlour working on a puzzlegame with Jennaria, I cannot possibly attend to every problem the children have.

He did not seek me out. He waited until I was walking past the open doorway of his study to call me over to him: Imogen, he said. I need to speak to you for a minute.

He was sitting in his dark bantha-blood leather chair near the mumbling glowing fireplace, in his grey uniform and mirror-polished black boots, his eyes bruised with shadows in the weak light from the one lamp. He looked at me coldly for a minute, and I looked back. When my father wanted to have a talk with us, we all knew better than to ever look away from him. That was (like apologizing for any reason, or giving way to your emotions) a sign of weakness.

Then: Your mother has told me of a situation at your school, and I believe that it is time—past time, really—that you knew this.

Then he delivered his point: that in any new situation, you must make certain to establish your dominance straight away; because if you do not, someone else will—and once they have, once they have you where they want you, then it’s too late. When I asked him--and since I was fourteen, I was already old enough to know better--what I should do now, he had smiled a variation on that twitched hard little smirk, and his meaning was already made plain.

There isn’t much you can do, he said. They are already well aware they have the control. But you will have other opportunities. Next time, I trust you will know what to do to begin with.

I haven’t thought of that in years. Or it would be more accurate to write that in a way, I haven’t ever stopped thinking about it.

If he wanted to goad me into action, he succeeded—though I don’t know what he thought when my mother told him, and she must have, of the resulting “incident.” When I saw him next, he would never so much as mention it to me. I have to suppose that was his response.

--

But I should return to where I left off: her name--or the name that she has chosen to use here, anyhow--is Mellé. And as it turns out, she really is enrolled as a graduate student, in her second year, in the mid-rim languages department. When I arrived at the kaffa house, she was already there ahead of me. There were only a few other customers so, without a line to stand in, she had to take up her position by the front theatre-window, her com held at the ready in her fisted hand. She looked at me only long enough so I knew she had seen me. I didn’t acknowledge her with so much as a nod before I went up to the counter.

She waited for another moment before she came to stand behind me. I could only see her as a shadow-smudged dark blur from the corner of my eye, but I knew she was there: I could sense the movement when she shifted her hips to the side, and I could smell the rain-damp air from her jacket, and her candy-breath sweet floral soap.

It took me only a few more minutes to go through the motions of making my order, and then for the employee to prepare my drink, and that wasn’t near long enough for me. I didn’t know what I thought of the girl standing behind me—and what it could be she was about to tell me.

Since I had the advantage, I chose to sit at one of the old bone-grey wooden tables on the garden-side patio. This was in part for the privacy, which she had hinted was necessary—I knew, with the sullen weather hovering outside, that the other customers would avoid it. It was also so I could smoke, as I wasn’t going to get through this without at least one cigaret. But I didn’t need it quite yet—I was, mercifully and predictably, the only person there, and the air was sleek and bright from the rain, and it smelled like the sky. I was disappointed when she showed up.

When I pushed my plate to the side and lit up the first cigaret with a lurching flame, she watched on, her mouth clenched into a displeased curl. She took in a bristling sniff of a breath. And no, I did not offer her one of the remaining cigarets in the package. I can tell these things, and I had already figured she doesn’t smoke.

But she must have decided it was best not to begin with any antagonizing wit, because she refrained from sharing her thoughts. Instead, she went with a different approach: I should probably introduce myself about now.

I should think so, I said.

Of course, I recognized her name as a Naboo one straight away—and she is indeed from Naboo, though, as part of her identity here, she poses as an onworld native, from Eridani Heights. I didn’t need her to explain that: after all, no one from Naboo would have reason to study their own culture on Eriadu. The department chair herself is only, merely from the City.

I did not mention that her name is of the type traditionally given to social inferiors: to the girls destined to be servants, and once upon a time, to the Queen’s handmaidens. I could just hear that tell-tale slanting hat of an accent perched at the end of it. But she would already know that (and most probably, she was so named because she was the younger of several daughters) and I didn’t see any need to be that rude. I was going to allow her to start with that.

Then we talked about her studies, and the introductory class she teaches, and related academic matters, for some minutes. But that was how it needed to be: you cannot just rush into these things, and we did need to eat. I had one of the plump dry scones with sugared almonds, and she had a cream-twist. Then she said it, as she slouched back in her chair: But all that isn’t my true focus.

Well, I don’t think we would be here if it were, I said, and lit up another cigaret. I see. Indeed, I see. So what does bring you to this humble university?

She looked straight at me, and her voice seemed to echo when she said, when she actually said: The Alliance to Restore the Republic.

I must have just stared at her for several moments. I was, almost literally, without any words. But nothing happened: we were alone, and the only sound was a snarl of traffic thunder overhead. No one had overheard her. No one else knew. Then I remembered the cigaret I had pinched, leaking a long breath of smoke, between my fingers, and I took a drag. I wanted to laugh, a hard forced stamped hahaha, but I couldn’t quite manage it.

Then I exhaled, and I blew the smoke out into her face when I finally spoke: You cannot be serious. Just how stupid are you? You do remember this is a loyal world.

She only blinked at the smoke, and leaned forward, her knee nudging against the table when she crossed her legs: Oh, don’t worry. I’m hardly about to forget, she said. I needed to get your attention, and there was no better way than to go with the truth.

Right, I said. You do realize that I could report you to the authorities right now, and you know how they would take care of you. It would be my duty as an Imperial citizen.

But you won’t, she said. Oh, I don’t trust you—I’m not that stupid. But I know you don’t care enough to report me. Your reputation has preceded you in that respect.

You might have a point there, I said. But I needed to remind you just what risks you’ve decided to take. And since we’re telling the truth, I don’t see what this has to do with me.

It has everything to do with you, Imogen, she said. When she smiled, a hard snap of her mouth, I don’t think it was deliberate. You’re the reason that I’m here to begin with.

She did explain herself, though it took a while: I even excused myself at one point to buy another drink. Apparently (she began) she was originally a member of the Naboo Queens, that group of anonymous women in royal face paint who are dedicated to inferring with the Empire. They even blew up that base on our moon last year. She related this in a secret-hushed whisper, and I wonder now if I was the first person she had ever told.

Personally, I have always thought it odd that a group of rebels should style themselves after a planetary leader—even though I have lived on Naboo, and I know what stories they prefer to tell there, and I know they couldn’t do anything else. The Naboo really don’t make for good rebels. But I only said, when she asked: Yes, I’ve heard of them.

She did not tell me why she was no longer with them, and I didn’t ask. But that left her free to take on a mission with rebel intelligence when they offered it to her. That was two years ago, before the rebels had even learned of the Death Star’s existence—but they had figured out that the high command had a project of that nature in motion. Mellé was, under her cover as a graduate student, to befriend me, and learn—either by confidence, or by stealth—anything that I knew.

They had chosen me as a target because, as she said, my reputation preceded me: I am a failed intellectual, and failed socialite, adrift in life—and I have never expressed so much as one word of loyalty towards the empire my father was devoted to. Even Prunella has managed that much. They had chosen her because she was Naboo, and she could use our shared field in Grizmalti literary studies as an opening to introduce herself to me. I had to admit it was a reasonable plan on their part.

But while she did see me several times from a distance, she wasn’t able to get closer than that, and certainly wasn’t able to engage me in an opening conversation, before it was no longer necessary: the Death Star was revealed for what it was, when it destroyed, and was destroyed itself, and the mission was done. Her handlers ceased all communications with her, and she hasn’t heard from them again since. And so, thus abandoned by her cause, she continued along with her studies, her role now truly real, for lack of anything better to do.

But she hadn’t resigned herself to her situation, and when I returned to the university this month, she happened to see me on the avenue—and oh, it didn’t do much for her mood to be reminded of why she had come to be here. She had waited, and it had taken a while, and chance, before she saw me again in the library. It must have been one of those afternoons when I saw her, without truly seeing her. Then she made her move, and that had all led to this meeting at the kaffa house.

Once she was finished, I said: There is one thing. Out of all my siblings, you didn’t have to go with me. You must know my brother Wilhuff is an even weaker link in the family than I am.

We know that your father regretted ever gifting him with his name, she said. But nearly everyone knows that. Sorry.

I shrugged. Of course, she hadn’t told me anything I’m not well aware of—Wilhuff has said more than once that he thinks our father was disappointed in him. Our father was disappointed in him. Well, if it was information you wanted, he wouldn’t have helped you much with that. But you should know that I wouldn’t have either. I don’t know much more about the Death Star even now than you do. It’s possible I know less.

(When they called to inform my mother of my father’s death, they had revealed only that there had been an accident on the experimental battle station where he had been assigned, and that any further information was “need to know”—and we did not need to know. I suppose I do know most of the truth now, but it took a long enough time.)

Honestly, the whole operation was really only a back-up plan, she said. I couldn’t tell you how far it went, or what they expected to gain from it. That was above my pay grade.

I still couldn’t figure out why she was telling me any of this. But then she continued: I never wanted to be here, but it seems I will be for a while yet. And there’s a possibility still that you could prove yourself to be of some use.

Oh thank you so much, I said, but she decided to ignore that one.

She has heard—though she was clear it is but a rumor of a rumor—that rebel intelligence has another agent in place on Eriadu. She has been out of the information loop for a year now, so she doesn’t know anything more than that: but she is hoping, against all logic, that they know about her, and that when they are ready to make their move, they will seek her out.

You might be waiting a long time, I said, and then, against my better reasoning, You haven’t asked for my advice, Mellé. But I’ll provide it anyway. If you want to leave so much, you should do that. You’re from the Emperor’s homeworld. They won’t stop you. They’ll hardly read over your passport. Your rebel associates—and that includes this other agent—are finished with you.

You don’t get it at all, she said—and oh yes, her smug tone was back. I know how to wait. I even have a talent for it. I came here for a purpose, and I still mean to see it out.

When I returned home, it was after dark, and the message light was glaring on my com, which I had left out on the kitchen counter. When I checked, Governor C.’s voice burst forth, wanting to know when we were going to set an actual date for that hypothetical dinner. I had begun to wonder, and even to hope, that she had forgotten about that. Most people would have by now.

That was yesterday, and I haven’t called her back yet. I don’t know if I should have written any of this down, but I have done that. And oh yes, I know what else I have done: Mellé is a rebel, and a criminal on this world, and when I declined to turn her in, I threw in my lot with her. She didn’t tell me not to repeat what she told me, because she didn’t have to. I can’t tell anyone.

Spoiler

*Mon Mothma's quote is from Star Wars: The Rebel Files, via Wookieepedia.

*I didn't come up with the idea for the group of rebels known as the Naboo Queens--it seems to have originated with tumblr user nabooqueen, as I found a reference to it in a 2015 post of hers which is also tagged under "star wars headcanons." But it sort of became one of those shared tumblr ideas, and I believe at least several people have either used it in fanfiction or planned to do so at some point.

 

Findswoman: Interesting to read Imogen's reflections on her (very famous and well known) dad; this is indeed a first for us. It's a very complex relationship, and more than a little tortured, in its way—because that's no doubt how Wilhuff Sr. wants it. And he would advise her to solve high-school social dramas by "establishing dominance," wouldn't he? (That said, Rosaleen sounds like a piece of work, too... based on her mom's position I am going to guess she's Kuati.) From the way Imogen remembers that conversation, it seems she has some mixed feelings about that course of action and perhaps still does now.

This is the first time--as Imogen says, literally so--that she has ever written about her father (and it is the first time I think I have ever written about the Grand Moff). And yes, they had a complicated relationship, and it was indeed because the Grand Moff wanted it that way. He ran his household in the same way he ran his ship, his fleet, and his doctrine: you can probably imagine how much backtalk that man didn't put up with. Of course, he would advise Imogen to solve her social issues the same way he would handle his military issues.

As for Rosaleen: while I admit I took her mother's position from Mumsy Dearest's in that one story of yours, she isn't Kuati. Rosaleen's family are nouveau riche Eriaduians with far more money than sense or manners.

It's clearly on her mind, though, as she recounts her continued exchanges with that upstartish young Naboo lady she saw in the library and now is meeting for kaffa. Definitely more than meets the eye to this Mellé—as Imogen notes, she is clearly on Eriadu for other reasons than just studying, and it soon becomes clear what those other reasons are (can we say "Rebellion," kids?) My first thought was that Mellé's got a lot of gumption to say that outright, to a Tarkin (because certainly she knows), on Eriadu—but it soon becomes clear that this is all part of very carefully laid plan to specifically recruit her, Imogen. I guess it remains to be seen whether that plan will actually work.

Mellé certainly doesn't lack for guts--though in a way, she can get away with telling the outrageous truth because it's so outrageous (admitting you're a member of the rebel alliance on Eriadu) that it can almost come across as a lie. As for her plans, as she says, she is on this planet to begin with because of Imogen, and since she remains stuck there, she's determined to at least go through in some way with her original mission.

On one hand Imogen seems none too pleased with Mellé's cocky demeanor and cryptic boasts about the Purpose That She Has to See Out (which I'm guessing actually has zero to do with the Death Star). And yet, on the other, the fact that she's not reporting her to the authorities is huge, because I think Imogen, in her way, is curious about that purpose, too.

Yes, Imogen remains none too impressed with Mellé. But she doesn't report her either--and I suspect that once a certain amount of time (perhaps twenty-four hours at the most) has passed, that means she had her chance, and is officially Aiding and Abetting.

It will be very intriguing to see where this leads and whether Imogen really will join up with the Naboo Queens and the Rebellion. (And now I'm curious about this other Tumblr user and her AUs... ) Glad to see this continuing, whatever direction it will take!

Imogen is cynical to the bone, so it remains to be seen if Mellé can convince her Why She Should Care. (All signs point to that being rather difficult--Imogen is not moved by idealistic righteous anger, and Mellé doesn't have much use for other approaches.) I can say, and I don't think this really qualifies as a spoiler, that she won't be joining up with the Naboo Queens--even if she was interested in doing so, they wouldn't have her.

And the Naboo Queens are just one of legions of "head canons" on tumblr--and while at least one other person who ran with the idea depicted them as being Padmé's former handmaidens, the original idea just had them being regular anonymous Naboo women, and that's how I'm playing it here.

As always, thanks for reading and commenting!

 

I don’t know if I should have written any of this down, but I have done that. And oh yes, I know what else I have done: Mellé is a rebel, and a criminal on this world, and when I declined to turn her in, I threw in my lot with her. She didn’t tell me not to repeat what she told me, because she didn’t have to. I can’t tell anyone.

Interesting dilemma. You always manage to write complex, witty plots like that. I wonder what our main character is going to do.

 

AzureAngel2: Interesting dilemma. You always manage to write complex, witty plots like that. I wonder what our main character is going to do.

Well, she will have to decide on some course of action at some point--even if the rebellious Mellé hasn't managed to convince her as to why she should care. All of this will hopefully be revealed with time.

---------------------------------------

It's been a long time (as in over two years) since this thread has seen the daylight of the boards, but I can say that I returned to working on this story last month after several previous failed attempts to do so, thanks to WIPtober--and I should have a new post up in the relatively new future.

 

*And almost two months later...*

*


Well, I am pleased to report that I have successfully survived the dinner date with Governor C. and her considerably more charming other half. And: I only needed to spend the one evening in the City in the process. Wilhuff was sober when he made his appearance at my flat, and he had managed to hire the private speeder-car. Once we boarded, it dashed off into the sky with a teethshaking jerk, and I was reminded of why it is I don’t like them. They move too fast, faster than the mind can think. I don’t think I need any further excuses to explain that. And yes, since I know you’re wondering, I would be happy to never endure hyperspace travel again.

Soon enough—too soon—we had traveled three hours back in time, and I was watching the once family fortress looming ahead outside the window. I had remembered, of course, how ugly it is, but that cannot compare to viewing it in very real life: it is a massive grey bone-dead edifice that was made for protection, not appearances, and it shows. I realized that Wilhuff was watching it too when he said: Do you ever miss it?

Never, I said. But that wasn’t quite the right answer, and I knew it--and after a moment I continued: I will say this for it. It always did suit the family reputation.

That is the absolute truth, he said. Honestly, I don’t really know what I feel about the place, but I know this much. It is what it is.

Governor C. was there straight away to greet us at the private wing door, even though she has a protocol droid unit to handle the niceties. The droid in question hovered off in the background behind her, its eyes flashing distress signals, while she greeted us. Imogen, she said, in her booming voice of command. And Wilhuff. You’re finally here.

As always, Governor C. was dressed in uniform: in the rigidly starched nightmare-grey uniform of the naval officer. She came up through the navy, and (she told me the second time we met) she had once had hopes of making the august rank of admiral before, thanks to my father, she changed her career path. But if she is without a heart, she doesn’t need her uniform to hold her together. Governor C. is tall and well-built, with broad shoulders and mighty hips, and wholesome brown skin with dark freckles and an armored bosom. I had worn shoes with thick heels so I could be taller, and feel somewhat more at my ease, around her.

She had her thick frizzy black hair done up in a swollen bun, and her rank bars glared with drowned reflected lights. She smiled as hard and fast as a salute.

I smiled in return--and probably, as in a trashnovel, I “smiled weakly”--but I was in a sufficient state to add: Please don’t wear my name out, Governor. I might wish to use it again.

Of course, she wasn’t at all bothered. I will try not to.

Then she turned, and I turned with her to see the Wife had made her entrance. She joined the Governor and: Oh, I’m sure she will treat your name well. Hello, Imogen.

The Wife’s name is Pascale. I don’t know why I wrote it down, when I tend not to think of her by any name at all. She is pretty, but in an ordinary way—with pale skin and dark brunette hair and sweetheart brown eyes. Actually, going by that description, she should look rather like Prunella. But in person, in reality, she looks nothing like her. And I have never once thought of her as ordinary, though I don’t know what it is that I do see in her.

She watched me with a secret-knowing smile. She was dressed in her usual fashion: in a nightblue skirt and waistcoat, with a cloudsoft white blouse and business uniform tie. She spoke with that light gruff voice with a birdsong rhythm to it, the echo of one of the accents from the outer circle of the corporate slums. She hasn’t ever told me any stories about her background, but she must have begun her life in the City, on this very planet.

After I returned her greeting, I noticed she was looking over at Wilhuff. She didn’t appear to recognize him, though I know for certain she had met him before at least once, at Jennaria’s wedding, and most likely since then as well. Naturally, Wilhuff leapt in to handle the situation before I could: And I’m Wilhuff. The second unfortunate blessed with that name, but I work with it. We met at my sister’s wedding, remember?

Of course, I remember, she said—and if she was telling a lie to be polite and keep the veneer of civilization in place, she sounded absolutely sincere.

The Governor handled the conversation over dinner. She is proud of her reputation as a “bad arse”--and of course, the exploits though which she gained it, ever since she defied orders from a Superior Officer and not only got away with it, she was promoted. I have heard about that one in detail, most of it directly from her. But she is also well aware that in governing society, it doesn’t do to brag on oneself. You need to let others do that for you.

So she went with another of her favored topics. Your father was a great man, she said. It was one of the greatest honors of my life to have known him. His death was a terrible blow to the navy, and I won’t be surprised if the rebels are crawling all over them now. They won’t have his like in their ranks again, that’s for sure.

Wilhuff only watched her with a blank-stunned stare, so I saw I would have to be the one to respond. Ah, thank you, I said. To be sure.

Then Wilhuff spoke: The greatest of all such men. He lifted his wine glass up in a smirking salute. Hip hip hooraw.

Governor C. blinked at that, but soon recovered her wits. That’s right, Little Wilhuff, she said. Trust me, I would be proud to have that man as my own father.

She proceeded then to the most recent naval gossip, beginning with the rumored promotion of a Minor Great Man to the elevated status of Moff. I thought his name sounded familiar, if only in a dream-vague way, so Jennaria must have mentioned him to me in passing once. He’s a decent enough sort, the Governor allowed. But maybe too competent, though you didn’t hear that one from me. I won’t be surprised to hear it’s all just talk.

She went on at some length about this TIE pilot who was amongst those lucky few who were far enough out of range when the Death Star met its fiery end. I hadn’t heard a thing about her before then, but oh, I certainly have now. Apparently, she is determined to crush the rebels into bits in the name of the Death Star--every single last one of them--while also living in shame that she survived, a mere disposable coffin jockey, whilst the men with rank bars died.

Well! the Governor said, stabbing the air with her finger. With that sort of attitude, that’s all she is ever going to be. You don’t rise to the heights through groveling.

The Wife had listened on in silence, save for a few supporting comments. But then I realized she was talking to Wilhuff: That is quite the name to have, she said.

Well, they used to call me Willi at university, he said, leaning towards her, his (sunny blond) hair drooping romantically. You can call me that too, if you like.

He had this wickedsly gleam in his eye, and it took me a moment to realize that he was actually, of all things, right there at dinner, attempting to flirt with her. I did consider taking him aside (oh so discreetly, just for a moment) to warn him off her, but the timing wasn’t ever right. And honestly, there was probably no need for me to do so: he was merely indulging in a passing whim, and it isn’t as though anything can come of it.

After dinner, the Governor insisted that I join her in the study that was once my father’s, and I thought it best to go along. She sat down, thankfully, and I was glad to do so as well. I don’t usually wear heels, and after only several hours of walking around in them, my calves were felt like heavysore wooden poles. She offered me a cigaret, and I accepted it. We both lit up, and she smoked in thoughtful, and silent, happiness for a minute, to my considerable relief.

I had been content during dinner merely to eat, and to comment only when I couldn’t well get out of it. Per usual, I didn’t have much to contribute. Well, that—and the fact that thanks to Mellé (who is a constant aggravation, but I’ll write about her another time) I have committed treason against this world and this empire. Oh, I wasn’t concerned that I would accidentally reveal a damning detail. I think I can manage myself better than that.

But I would have been hopeless if I hadn’t remained aware of what I must now keep a secret. I don’t know how the Governor would react, and I’m sure I don’t want to.

Then she spoke, and I wondered if this was the moment she revealed her move: I am so glad you decided to come over, Imogen. You know, I never had any friends among the other women in the navy, even when I was still at Carida. There are few enough of us, and we have to scream twice as loud to get anywhere. So you’d think it would be otherwise. But no. You never trusted another woman, never. The big boys’ approval was limited, and they were the competition.

That was not at all what I expected to hear from her, but I believed her--and it explains much about her, and Jennaria. I can see that, I said. We had similar issues in Academia.

Oh, I’ll just bet, the Governor said. Everywhere you’ve got people, human and otherwise, you’ve got politics, and you’ve got cow****. And the beat goes on.

While we were thus occupied, Wilhuff was keeping the Wife entertained. I could hear his distinctive hahaha as soon as I arrived back downstairs, and they came out of the sitting room. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had just told her a few of his life secrets. The Governor took them in with a fondly amused look, not at all threatened.

As soon as he saw us—and somehow, he managed to rip his eyes from the Wife to do so—he reached into his velvet violet-blue frockcoat pocket, and I knew. I’m just surprised he hadn’t taken out his holocamera during dinner, but my luck had run out. I opened my mouth, ready to protest, and then just shut up. When Wilhuff decides to take pictures, there is no stopping him.

---

As I wrote, we were there only for that evening. Several hours after we arrived, we were off again into the hovering night sky. Wilhuff had thought to lower the speed, and the car flew along at a dreaming stately glide. I’m not sure when I fell asleep, but when I woke up with electric sparked jerk, we were gliding through the corporate district downtown, in the canyon between the tall black towering walls. I could see the occasional fireglow of lit windows in the darkness, and a glimpse of the room beyond. We were almost home again, but I had no desire to move. The black leather seats were as plush as a mattress, as befitted a car rented by a member of the House of Tarkin, and I had only to fold my legs at the knees to fit.

It reminded me of those times when I would wake up in the dark at the end of a family trip, back in the City, with school only hours away. When I was eleven, when I was sixteen, and even when I was nineteen and finally of age. I would stare up at the lit windows scattered in the darkness of the office buildings as though what I was experiencing was merely the prelude to what would happen next, would happen soon, after I began my real life.

But now I am grown up, and years away from those times, and I didn’t imagine one thing. Well: beyond the hapless wish that I could be riding in that same car, returning from another social engagement, and that the pretty man across from me was not also my younger brother.

No one, not even those who seem most blessed by fortune, gets everything they want in life. When you think about it, that is only just realistic. But somehow, and I don’t know how it happened, I have nothing: no career (and I was brought up to work, to earn my existence), no friends, and no love, the answer to that has always ever been “no,” and certainly no sex. I am thirty-seven ****ing years old, and all I have is a life that is hardly a life.

And no—it is not all right. Not even remotely. Yes, I have to endure what my life is, and I do endure it. Neither do I bother with weak telltale skin-bruising tears. But trust me: it’s like having a wound that, while not mortal, never ever heals.

The speeder stopped at my flat first, and I forced myself to sit up. My eyes were sticky, but I was wide and dully awake. Then I had to wake Wilhuff in preparation for his own stop five minutes away. Willi, I said as I loomed over him (without so much as a hint of sing-song mockery in my echoing thoughts). We’re back.

He snorted, and then his eyes popped open. What? Where? Oh ****. He pushed himself up and shook his hair out of his eyes. Can I stay in your guest room tonight?

Of course, you may, I said. I can admit here what I was well aware of then--that I was relieved, that I had hoped he would ask for just that. For once, for awhile, I didn’t want to be alone.

 

The visit to Governor C was interesting; she both is and isn't what one would expect from someone who recalled Tarkin the elder fondly.

Oh, you know, the treason. Minor detail. But in a way, I suppose Imogen has spent a long time giving out a certain impression to people and adding one more set of secrets to the list is less in a way.

Wilhuff seems like he has not only issues but the entire back catalogue, and I find myself wondering if he's as skeevy and shallow as he acts or if he, like Imogen, is playing a part for some reason.

 

Kahara: The visit to Governor C was interesting; she both is and isn't what one would expect from someone who recalled Tarkin the elder fondly.

When she is going on about late Grand Moff's virtues, I suppose one could read it as merely empty flattery on her part, considering that she has his children as her audience. But she absolutely totally means it: she's actually--even after years of service in the Empire where she would learned well that it's best to have a fake and polished surface--honest to a fault.

Oh, you know, the treason. Minor detail. But in a way, I suppose Imogen has spent a long time giving out a certain impression to people and adding one more set of secrets to the list is less in a way.

Oh, it's just a little treason. A minor flesh wound requiring only a bandage. But it's true enough when you're used to so many things being [redacted], you know how to keep secrets. Besides which, Imogen is--and I would say she knows this--somewhat protected by the privilege that comes with being of the House of Tarkin. If she were to get caught, she wouldn't get the shot to the back of the head, the unmarked grave. Which is what happened to Russian assets with the CIA back in the Cold War. For some reason, I still remember this c. 1994 article in Time about one of them, and the one bit I remember is what the asset said when he was asked what would happen to him if he were to be caught, and that "the answer came swiftly, and in Russian."

On that note, if Imogen were to go beyond mere aiding and abetting, it might be for similar, more cynical, reasons to what one of the Russian assets said in The Assets, a mini-series on the Aldrich Ames spy case. "I love my country. I don't give a damn for the government."

Wilhuff seems like he has not only issues but the entire back catalogue, and I find myself wondering if he's as skeevy and shallow as he acts or if he, like Imogen, is playing a part for some reason.

I have to admit I'm not too surprised that Wilhuff doesn't come across very well--and this when he's seen through his sister's POV, who thinks better of him than outsiders would. (For example: she doesn't see his flirting with the Wife as skeevy, but rather as hopelessly socially clueless.) He does really seem like an accident that is about to happen--and yes, he has a subscription of issues. As for how much of this is an act, you'll have to see.

Finally, thanks for reading and commenting!

 

----------------------------

Mellé has begun a campaign at the university to liberate the staff-droids. Yes, that is the precise word she uses to describe her ultimate goal--which is absolute independence for the droids, and freedom from all mind wipes, beginning with the droids at the library. It turns out that they have their minds wiped clean on a weekly basis. She told me that rebel intelligence does the same with their droids, and so she recognized the signs. I can see the reasoning for it—the library needs to protect its information from the rampaging prudes of the IDC—and I’m sure she does as well, even if she’s not about to admit to it.

She has raged on this matter to me, her oh so lucky confidant, multiple times: I brought this same issue up with command, and they didn’t so much as pretend to care. They put me off by going on about how they could only fight so many battles, blah blah blah. That is such ignorant ****. Willfully ignorant ****. Until we are all free, none of us are.

Well, I said, when she came to a furious smoldering glaring pause. If that’s the case, then none of us will ever be free.

How can you be this cynical? she said.

Easily, I said, though I was well aware she didn’t want an answer.

Honestly, I don’t know why it is that I put up with her. She’s twenty-seven years old, for ****’s sake—though I had originally thought her, quite understandably, to be years younger than that--and of an age where she should have outgrown this sort of righteous burning-pure stupid idealism. I mean: even the rebel alliance, of all people, proved to be too pragmatic for her liking.

But somehow, I continue to do so, and it seems we are now stuck together. I haven’t had her over to my flat yet, but it’s really an inevitability at this point. I think those who have observed us assume, despite our constant sharp jabbing quarrels, that we’re actual friends.

Usually, we meet up in the library stacks, the same place where we first met. That doesn’t hold any special meaning for me, and I’m glad of it. I met Alcée at the library, at the royal library in Theed, and well: we all know how that turned out.

Today, though, she was out presenting her droids rights speech in the library courtyard, while I stood nearby as a mere observer. She wore a bright blood red plastic-leather dress, if in a plain classical style, and her hair is now a light canela-and-sugar brown, so people noticed her. But I could tell no one was taking what she was saying seriously: and really, most of the people passing by, hurrying through their oh so important lives, never even heard her. Those people who did listen to her seemed amused, and a few of them shook their heads.

But she charged, undeterred, through her points: Droids are as sentient as we are/Only smarter and better and faster/If you own a sentient being, you are enslaving them/Being a slaver makes you subhumonoid scum. Etc.

She was well into it when a boy with thick pink velvet acne and thick clumpy plastic shoes, who had been watching on with his pack of friends, decided to lend his opinion: Hey lady, I don’t know why you’re making a big deal out of this. They’re just machines.

She whirled on him, and she literally snorted through her nose with rage: Hey! And you’re just a ****ing privileged meatsack with only two available brain cells. But no big deal!

Afterwards, we retreated to one of the study rooms in the classics archive, though she worked on her knitting, thrusting her needles back and forth with stabbing jabs, while I did the studying. That’s right—Mellé has taken up the most ancient art of knitting during her spare time in this her exile here in Floreat, Eriadu. I didn’t know anyone still did that in the rim, let alone here, but she’s told me it has become a “microfad” in the languages school. She’s making some sort of moss-soft spicebrown shawl. I haven’t asked, but I rather suspect it is not a gift for me.

She waited until this evening, when we were walking down the footpath through the privacy of the empty ornamental aspen grove in the university park, to tell me her news--and oh yes, she has news. The sort she had to lean in and reveal over the rain-shivering leaves. The other rebel agent in this city, the one she was waiting and wishing for to appear, has finally contacted her.

That was just last night, but she has already made arrangements to meet with him in person, and she wants me to come along with her. He really wants to meet you, she said.

Oh, I had no idea I was so popular with the radical set, I said, but she chose to ignore that.

So it’s settled. I shall be accompanying Mellé to the rendezvous point in two nights’ time, to meet with this mysterious, yet quite real, agent. He chose the place: at the north end of the catacombs, underneath the east wing of the library. It turns out all those stories about that secret entrance in the basement storage room are true, though I still have my doubts about the grey fog ghost of the woman who was buried alive there under the flagstones for poisoning her niece.

Mellé has the key, which she showed me as proof, to open it. It’s an old ruststained coin bronze, with jagged wulf teeth, and the head is a skull with burned-black eyeholes. I turned it over in my hands, and rubbed the tiny words scratched and scarred into the side: Come to me, and come to dust. I would like to know just how she obtained it, but I decided not to ask.

Spoiler

Visual reference for Mellé's dress.

 

----------------------

When the time of our meeting arrived, I was standing with Mellé in the underwater shadows of the northern catacombs. This part of the catacombs isn’t much used, and so the light system wasn’t ever updated, but I could see well enough with my torch to find the precise spot the agent had given us: a turning widening bend in the path where there was an enclosure carved into the wall, and a faded blurred wall fresco. I couldn’t see it too well with the shivering torch light, but I could make out the tall figure of a woman in a white gown, with a golden sun mask for a face.

The enclosure had been used, and in the recent past. There was a collection of burned low candles, creamy pale and wounded-red, arranged in the stone dust, and a scattering of dried-brown burnt paper flowers. I couldn’t identify what kind they had been.

I can only guess this was part of some ritual: something someone (no, it would have been a group of people, probably students from the University--because most people move through life with their packs) had invented as part of their own secret religion. I could understand why they had chosen this site. Originally, in the earliest days of the city when this world had another name, the enclosures were used as graves. Come to me, and come to dust, indeed.

I hadn’t been in this section of the catacombs before, and I would have liked to use the chance to look around. But I didn’t dare to leave the spot, so I could only study the immediate area while we awaited the coming of the rebel agent. Oh yes, we had to wait: it was hard to know for how long, since time seemed to drip past there, free of any connection to the chrono accounting of minutes. But it must have been nearly half of an hour.

There must be something holding him up, Mellé said. That’s it. He is going to come, in case you were doubting him. We just need to give him more time.

I understand you want him to come. Perhaps you even need him to, I said. But it doesn’t mean that, for whatever reason, he won’t ever show.

She glared over at me with such force I could feel it even in the darkness—but, I noticed, she didn’t contradict me. After a long dark silent moment, I went on: Since it looks like we’ll be here a while, and there’s no one to listen in save the mortal spirit of a murderous lady, perhaps you can tell me what it was he had planned.

I don’t know, she said. She leaned back against the wall next to the enclosure, and I could hear the echoed thumps as she moved her feet on the stone floor. He was going to tell me tonight. But I think it has to do with another backup plan they’ve got started. It has to be. And--

Thank you, Mellé, a man said (nearby, in the dead blackness, coming towards us). But I believe I can take it from here.

He came into view, following the bobbing ghostwhite light of his torch. But I had recognized him as soon as I heard his voice, and his rough drawling accent. It was him: the dark and pretty and insolent man from the kaffa shop, and the workers’ protest line.

I should have been taken aback with surprise. After all, going by the laws of coincidence, I should not have met him the second time--let alone another, third, time. But I wasn’t surprised, not in the least. It was (and I’m aware of how this will sound) as though I had already known I would meet him again, and had only been waiting for it to happen.

As a greeting, I said only, and rather absurdly: It’s you.

Yeah, he said. Me. Then he turned his attention to Mellé, who was staring in blank silence at both of us, and: We’ve met several times before this. I should probably have mentioned that to you, but it was a while ago, and merely in passing, so I couldn’t assume Miss Tarkin would remember it.

Then you must be quite surprised, I said.

Oh, I wouldn’t say that, he said. But we’re getting ahead of things, considering we’ve never actually been introduced. You may call me Suriel.

He said it in such a way that it was clear this wasn’t the name his parents had gifted him with, and that name was not for me to learn. Well, Suriel, I said. Now that we’re all here, I trust you’re going to inform us what this meeting is about.

You don’t bother with niceties, do you. He had lowered his torch, and I couldn’t make out his expression, or interpret the meaning in his voice. So I’ll get to the point. My mission objective is quite simple. I’m here to undermine the Empire’s standing on this world, through a variety of means. And I do the odd bit of recruitment when the situation allows.

So that was why you were with the protesters, I said. I should probably tell you that all they really want is the return of their gainful employment. Unless you can do that, they don’t much care who happens to be running the galactic show.

Mellé told me you were a cynic, he said. Well. You’re not wrong, and I do understand their viewpoint, but it’s a short-sighted one. It will in fact make a difference to them who runs the show. And a few of them have been able to see that.

He continued: As I said, I use a variety of ways to achieve my end goal. Which is where you come in. Are you familiar with Zevulon Veers?

As it happened, I didn’t know who he was—or more importantly, who his father was. This may come across as surprising, but I wasn’t cozy with the other offspring in the military ranks when I was an excuse for a girl trapped living in my father’s fortress, and I certainly don’t bother with that now. But I didn’t share any of that with him: No, I said. Should I be?

Oh, not particularly. I just thought you might have heard of him, he said. His father is a general in the ground troops, and apparently of some reputation. Though I hadn’t heard of him either. Anyway, Zevulon has chosen to rebel, literally, against his father—he dropped out of university and spliced a few computers and found us. And no, to answer the question I’m sure you have, we didn’t have to persuade him. The Empire did that on its own.

Then he got to the point: Veers Minor has proved to be a high profile recruit for us. But that’s not what I have in mind for you. We need someone who has is still on the inside, who can access the information we need without being seen.

That’s touching, I said. Really. But I need to know why it is I should care.

Mellé snatched that opportunity to speak: You would say that. You are the worst sort of cynic, Imogen. You don’t think the way the universe works can ever change. So you’ve just given up, and you think everyone else should give up as well.

I shrugged, though I doubted she noticed through the weak torch light: she may have had a point in there, but that means absolutely nothing. The universe is what it is, regardless of whether you like it or not, and no—you are not going to change it.

That’s something you’ll have to figure out, Suriel said. But I’ll guess you don’t have much use for your father’s empire. You wouldn’t be here if you did.

But I understand you don’t want to leap into a decision, he said (though, well, I had already committed a minor act of treason, might as well prance on to the real thing). Think about it. You are in a privileged position, and there’s a great deal you can do with that.

Mellé loves to go on about the sins of privilege--which I find amusing, given that she clearly comes from a well fed professional-class background, on a planet with only common human suffering, which does explain why she had to charge out into the galaxy and find non-humans and droids if she was going to save someone—and she took this opportunity: He’s right. You have an ability others can only dream of to influence events. This is your chance to be on the right side of history.

You’re taking a terribly big risk here, I said. Mellé didn’t speak, but I could almost literally feel her glare burning on the side of my face.

Oh I know. But it’s worked so far, he said.

He was preparing to leave, already stepping back into the darkness, blending away in his plain dark coat. Mellé will let you know the details of our next meeting. Until then, good-night.

Then he was gone: I blinked, and he had disappeared as though he had never been there with us, and we were alone. I turned my torchlight, and the beam leaped across the wall and over the fresco of the woman in her golden mask, which (I could then see) had sunspikes and cat-slanted eyeholes. Now that I was on my own time again, I wanted to investigate further, and see if it was part of a larger narrative--but I still had to contend with Mellé, and she was not going to leave alone.

--

Yes, I did indeed think on all that I had learned at that meeting, and after I parted ways with Mellé, and chose to walk the entire route home, I had all the time to think. I knew already that I would attend the next meeting with them, whenever and wherever it was. But I couldn’t explain why, and usually, I know my own mind better than that. Perhaps it was just the overall situation: the rebels are, after all, notoriously hard to get hold for those who want to find them--and here I had met one, and then two of them, without any effort on my part. Apparently, life is just that easy when you’re privileged, though I can well imagine Mellé’s response if I told her that.

Then: they had taken risks, enormous and stupid risks, in contacting me. They knew this, and had done so anyway. Perhaps, if only accidentally, I respect that—and it’s the least I can do to hear them out, even if this situation becomes more annoying than it has already been.

That, and I have proven in the past that there’s not much I won’t do—which since I have to remember it, I won’t dignify by writing down—when it comes to a beautiful man. I hope that Suriel is unaware of that aspect, but I rather suspect he knows.

As I walked through the soothing darkness, the exercise easing my mind--if only just a bit and only for that while--I fingered the key resting in my coat pocket, feeling the line of pin-etched words in the ancient metal, and the tiny black skull eyes. It’s in my care now, in the event that we should need that location again. If necessary, I know I can get away with having it.

I was approaching my building when I saw the man standing back in the shadows of the shrub-wall in the courtyard. He was smoking, and attempting to look at his ease, but I knew him for what he was. Instantly: after all, this wasn’t the first time I had an undercover watch on me.

I went straight up to him, with a hard aggressive snapping walk. Thanks to the advantages and—that’s right, Mellé—the privileges of being of the House of Tarkin, I can do that. He blinked at me, but remained, passive yet stubborn, where he was. All right, I said. Let’s get to the point here. You need to find another hobby, and leave me the **** alone.

He wasn’t used to speaking to his targets: I could tell from his bland meek face and static passive eyes. But he stared back at me without so much as a shivered cringe.

That all depends on you, he said. We’re concerned about this new girlfriend you’ve picked up lately. You should be careful of the company you keep, Miss Tarkin. You are from one of our most respected families, and there will always be people who want to use that.

There was only one thing he could be implicating by that, but I pushed it from my mind as I made my move for the final word. I smiled, and: Oh, I keep her around for the amusing conversation. That’s all. It’s really too cute that your supervisor is so concerned, but I suggest you both take care of your own lives, and leave mine alone.

Then I walked away, without waiting for his response, or looking back to see him. Once I was in my flat, I snapped on the privacy screen in the sitting room. I gave into my rather desperate urge and lit a cigaret, even though my lungs felt bruised-sore after my walk. I don’t know what to think of the watchman, and what will happen next. But I had better think about it. Because I know, from previous experience, that something will happen next.

 

Thanks for the likes, Kahara and Findswoman.

---------------------------------

While all that was transpiring, my mother and Prunella finally made their return to the homeworld. That was over a week ago, but I haven’t seen them yet, and neither has Wilhuff, as they went straight to the City, where they set up camp temporarily in a suite at The Atwater. And they will be living there: my mother closed on a condo in the garden district just yesterday. She had made arrangements to view a house (and it is a cute neat-sized cloudgrey stone cottage) in the wallside village here, but Prunella put an end to that. She made it clear that she will only live in the City—and she certainly isn’t going to lower herself to the outer reaches of Floreat.

My mother revealed this news through a com call today. Wilhuff was over, as he stayed in the guest room again last night, so she was able to tell us both at once. I had the com speaker set on while we sat in the sitting room in a rush of limp grey sunlight. It’s the sort of detail that reminds me why I will continue to live in this city, on Eriadu, and belong here.

Oh, I do regret that cottage, but only a little, she said, and her disembodied voice came out in a bright forced river-rush. That was as honest as she was willing to be--and I don’t think I could have interpreted her actual feelings any better if I had had the advantage of seeing her in person.

That’s all right, Mummy, Wilhuff said. If it’s still on the market, I can always buy it, and you can stay there when you come up to visit.

Since I knew Prunella was there hovering silently behind her, listening on, I decided I had to be the one to deliver the practical truth: Prunella, I said. You do know that if you want to live in the City this badly, you could have bought your own flat. You are a grown woman with a considerable income, hard as that is to believe. You should at least try to grow up.

Prunella inhaled with a shocked snorting gasp--as though that thought had never ever before occurred to her--before she spoke, her sullen deepdark voice pounding at me through the speaker: Oh no, I couldn’t possibly do that. Mother needs me, and you know that.

That’s not exactly what I know, but I had said enough for the moment. I turned to Wilhuff for some sort of support. He was perched on the sopha, wearing these striped (vertical stripes, golden and brown) silk trousers and mauve-purple socks, his hair a crooked wind-dazed mess, even though he had been awake for nearly two hours. He had lit a cigaret earlier in the call, and now he held it, neglected and still leaking a hiss of smoke, in an extended pause between drags.

He snapped his eyes in a hard blink, and lifted the cigaret for a refreshing inhale. Oh. Yeah. She doesn’t need you, Prunella. And you know that. You just have this deep need to hide away from the universe in her skirts. If that was only your problem, I wouldn’t even care. But it isn’t.

Prunella responded with another sniffed huff before she threw out her closing argument: Mother does have her own reasons for staying in the City. You might recall that Brienne and the children are here, and she wants to be near them. She hasn’t told you because she wanted to spare your feelings. So the two of you need to stop being so selfish!

My mother didn’t correct her, so I had to assume that was mostly true. But yes: I hadn’t thought of that detail, and I should have. Brienne, Rohan’s wife, has been established at her house in the garden district for three years now, with the two heirs, a girl and a boy, she produced for him. And it really is her house. Rohan makes the occasional appearance there when he’s away from his ship, but he has his own flat where he lives and frolics with his current boy on the side.

There was a click on their line then, and Brienne herself entered the call. As soon as I heard her voice, I could picture her without having to see her static-fuzz image: her sandy-red curly hair and one of her glossy jeweled silk dresses and her little mouth posed in an ever hopeful smile. She instantly set about trying to soothe things over for everyone.

And remember, we’re only several hours away, she said. It won’t be any matter at all for us to come up to Floreat for the occasional two-day.

Honestly, I was just as glad to listen on in the background while she handled the rest of the conversation. Prunella allowed that she would be fine with making a visit. It’s been a ridiculously long time since I’ve seen either of you in person, she said, her voice lighter. We should come up in a few weeks or so, once we’ve had time to settle in. And if I can fit it into my schedule.

She paused for effect, and: Oh, I forgot to mention this. It turns out that Juno and Emme and Petrella are all right here in the district. Can you believe it?

Actually, I can, I said, but Prunella couldn’t hear me as she continued talking.

We all listened then as she went on in some detail about her friends’ present lives, and their husbands, and Emme’s new artistically designed baby (with actual rainstorm grey eyes), and etc. She was especially thrilled to tell us that she had already met with Juno for tea.

That would be Juno Vinz, who was her role model—and for that one ohsoglorious year, her suitemate—at university. I only met her the one time, so I can’t say I have much of an opinion on her. But my mother did mention once during Prunella’s first year that she didn’t really get what appeal Juno had that inspired Prunella, and the rest of their gang, to such devotion. Regardless, it sounds as though Prunella has taken up where she never really left off.

Soon after that, they all signed off, and I closed the connection. The resulting silence was almost echoingloud, but it only lasted for a moment before Wilhuff spoke. Well then, he said, clawing his fingers through his hair in a quick brush. While Prunella was entertaining us, I was thinking about making a quick visit to that bakeshop down the street.

He paused with a hopeful look blaring from his eyes, and I knew he wanted me to accompany him. He doesn’t have a talent for being alone the way I do. Before he could ask, I went ahead and answered: I think I’ll go along with you. That is, if you don’t mind.

Then there’s this. I haven’t seen the watchman again since that first night, but I don’t know when he might lurk back again. Trust me, I don’t mean to let him get to me. I went outside for a long defiant walk that very next morning to prove it, though he wasn’t there to see me. But then--of course, and predictably--I drifted back to staying inside this flat, and this room. I need to put a stop to that, and this was an opportunity I could use.

Oh of course not! Wilhuff said. I’ll just be a minute. Don’t leave without me!

He lurched from the sopha and went off to the guestroom to retrieve his boots. While he did that, I went into the kitchen, where I discovered he had eaten the very last one of the scones I made a mere two days ago. No, I didn’t mention that to him--but I did let him pay at the bakery.

 

Findswoman: Caught up now; sorry it's taken me so long! Wow, what a ride! Between the dinner with Governor C. (whose wife seems very likable, and I'm curious if she'll play a further role) and the secret meeting with Mellé and Suriel (coffee shop fellow! I knew we'd see him again!), Imogen's well on her way into double-agent-hood, and indeed at this point I can see she's determined to go whole hog on the whole treason thing (good for her!), even despite the hurdles her House of Tarkin Privilege might pose for her. Mellé can rib her about that all she wants, but that is a nontrivial factor here that I could see making it hard for her to fully integrate into the Alliance (if she indeed goes that full route).

Yes, Imogen has certainly gone from living through one dull empty day after another to having a great deal to write about, and think through, in her diary. And as for Suriel turning out to be the previously unknown rebel agent, I suspect at least a few ghost-blue Jedi masters lifted the first eyebrow on that one. Even she knew, though she doesn't know how, that he would show up again. (Actually, when Mellé first mentioned this other agent, I thought it had to be painfully obvious foreshadowing that pointed straight to the man from the coffeeshop. But I suppose that was just because I had the writer's advantage of knowing all here.)

And the best/worst/too complicated to describe is yet to come. Though I don't see Imogen ever becoming a full-on rebel agent, the way Veers's son--a fictional version of an actual EU character--has. She's way too cynical. But (see next answer):

So she's kind of right between the Imperial and Rebel worlds, not quite completely fitting into either, and not sure which side of history she's on yet—well played by you, the author, I'd say!

That's a good way of summing it up. She's very clear, I think, that she hasn't any use for either the Empire or the Alliance to Restore the Republic, and she would rather not be with either of them. But that will ultimately be the problem, because if these two sides have even one thing in common, it's this: you're either with them--or you're on the enemy side.

Then you have Imogen's own family dynamic adding to the complexity, with her having to manage that flirt-wannabe brother and semi-layabout sister of hers on top of everything else. In a way, Wilhuff and Prunella are both very opposite from what one might expect from that House of Tarkin Privilege; just goes to show how far those stereotypes don't really go! In a weird, ironic way, Imogen herself seems the most Tarkin-like of the remaining bunch, from what I can see.

Imogen may seem to be the most Tarkin-like in character of her bunch so far--and she certainly is in comparison to both Wilhuff and Prunella (Prunella in particular is probably dismissed as taking after their mother's side)--but that's only because the other two siblings, Rohan and Jennaria, haven't yet shown up in person. They both went into the military, per Tarkin family tradition, and are out serving in the fleet. And Rohan has dutifully fathered the first two of the next generation of Tarkins, though I suppose it's too soon to know how they'll turn out.

And this watchman or bounty hunter or whatever he is... definite bad news. I could say I hope that situation won't escalate, but I'm almost certain there's no choice now but that it will. Still, I know Imogen will hold her own no matter what comes. And I am looking forward to seeing what will—so keep it coming!

He isn't good news--and oh yes, he will be back in all his passive aggressive glory...

(Bit of fanon incoming: He's worse than a bounty hunter--he's with the Watch, the secret police force for the walled city of Floreat on Eriadu, so he's in hock with the actual government. He is the law.)

Finally, thank you as always for reading and commenting!

 

Interesting to see even more Tarkins appearing -- what does one call a quantity of them, a disapproval? Anyway, you can definitely see where Imogen gets it just as much as why she doesn't exactly get on with these relatives.

This part stood out to me, that she's really used to everyone in her family not being able to say what they really think or want because there is this overwhelming force of What You Should Do acting on them all the time. (Even Wilhuff Jr. kind of seems like he's conforming by rebelling in his way, and I get the feeling Imogen sees herself the same whether it's entirely accurate or not.)

 

Kahara: Interesting to see even more Tarkins appearing -- what does one call a quantity of them, a disapproval? Anyway, you can definitely see where Imogen gets it just as much as why she doesn't exactly get on with these relatives.

A "disapproval" sounds about right to me. (Especially if the Tarkins in question are of the older generations, though that sort of group might need its own word. A scolding, mayhap?) They certainly aren't the most functional family out there. Though who is--as Neil Gaiman once said when someone told him his characters in The Sandman were a dysfunctional family, and he asked for what that person meant by that, and received an answer, "Well, that's what we call a family."

And they are indeed a family. Imogen may be frustrated with Prunella, but at the end of the call, they're still sisters.

This part stood out to me, that she's really used to everyone in her family not being able to say what they really think or want because there is this overwhelming force of What You Should Do acting on them all the time. (Even Wilhuff Jr. kind of seems like he's conforming by rebelling in his way, and I get the feeling Imogen sees herself the same whether it's entirely accurate or not.)

Imogen's mother has been keeping what she really wants, and feels, to herself for a long time, probably since she married into the House of Tarkin. Her years as a military/political wife are over now, but the rules still remain. (And she probably did want that cute house, but she has identified largely as a mother for a long time, and she puts Prunella and what she wants first.)

As for Wilhuff II, you could say he is rebelling in some of the classic ways of disaffected rich kids--the drug use being example number one. The three Tarkins all have one thing in common, though: they don't know exactly what to do with their lives. They're just not all equally aware that is what is going on.

Finally, thanks as always for reading and commenting!

 

[Back. From out of space.]

----------

There must have been a dramatic development in the unemployed protests in the City, because when I walked out into the night after my appointment with my rebellious acquaintances, the street was empty, and the sky overhead was quiet. So quiet I have to guess the mayor called an air-curfew. Yes, I know. Given said protests are safely hours away from here, that doesn’t make any sense. But I found it suited my purposes as I left the fairylight shining windows of the cafe behind me, and began walking: down the street, and across the bridge, high above the thrashing black river. As I walked on, the only sound I could hear was the thrashing laughing wind-roar from the waters.

I can’t explain how I didn’t get lost in the maze of streets before I chanced upon a corner crossing with Grande Avenue, and followed it into the university district. Because I should have been haplessly hopelessly lost. I may have lived here for almost five years, but I embarked upon my journey in a neighborhood I have only ever passed through at airbus speed.

I just walked: down one long stagelit night street, and then another, guided by an instinctual pull towards my flat, the one hole I can call my own. I thought only enough to remain functional. The words I would have used to think over (what had just happened, and my role as its heroine and villain) were frozen dead. Buried in mud. When I happened upon occasional other travelers, I saw them as vague underwater pastel blurs before I no longer had to see them at all.

As the pop-intellectuals might confess to set the tone on the latest update in their public diaries: CURRENT MOOD: MY MIND IS A DEAD HOLOSCREEN.

As I walked on, my throat hurt. My very lung tissue hurt. But after a while, as the irondark coldfront winds beat against me, that changed: I ceased to feel the effort as I breathed, or the air charging through my sinuses, or the impact as my feet hit the pavement over and over again with each step. Then I no longer felt the burden of physically existing, as though I were walking away from my entire body. I was tired, and then I was beyond tired.

CURRENT MOOD: ****ING ASCENDANT.

There was one moment when, as I walked across the corporate district, I looked up and made out one single firebug-bright window floating in the numbed-out darkness. I didn’t stop, I didn’t dare to do so, but I let my pace slow until I had a direct view. And it was as though my gaze swooped inside: so close I could see the details in the amberwood paneling, and the light glowing across it from the wall lamp burning under a milkglass shade.

But there was nothing of any importance to see in the room beneath. Oh, I knew what it was now. Merely a conference room where the middle management types met and clashed over the details of industry, with a dose of social blah blah blah. There were never any secrets there to imagine.

Then the end was ahead of me, and I was walking up the street towards my flat. I don’t any longer recall the precise moment when I reached my street, when I saw the first place I recognized and knew I was almost home. This all happened only this very night, not even two hours ago, and already I can’t remember much of it. I should have been relieved, but that was not what I felt. After all, I had walked for hours, but I hadn’t escaped from my brain. I still can’t.

I’ll get this all figured out somehow. Eventually. With enough time, once I learn to tolerate living with the knowledge I have now. But for now, at this exact moment, there isn’t one way I can look at this situation, and make it anything other than what I know it to be. It’s beyond mere reason. Reason has little to do with it.

I do know—and far better than certain rebels can—that I am not responsible for my father’s actions. Military or otherwise. He took on all that himself. If he ever looked back on his career, and he must have on occasion, he wouldn’t have bothered with regrets. And now he’s dead, and they can only fantasize about taking him to task for all his sins, his one great last one in particular. But they can get to me. They have gotten to me. That’s the thing.

*