Sector 2828
Outskirts of the Vega System
"Captain, we're approaching the designated coordinates."
"Good. Helm, ease us down to light speed threshold and prepare to switch to the sub-light engines. Do we have visual?"
A chorus of 'aye captains' from the helm and various technicians, then:
"Not yet, sir. Time estimated to visual confirmation… forty seconds."
"Do we have anything on scanners?" There was a stretching pause where an answer should have been. "Lieutenant Barand'r?" The captain pivoted in his seat to regard his sensory officer, bent low over his workstation on the far side of the bridge.
"I… I'm not sure, sir. The scanners aren't finding anything. At the very least, we should be picking up the energy output signatures of hyperdrive engines, but… there's nothing out there, sir."
"What do you mean, there's nothing out there?" the first officer asked incredulously. "What about the fleet?"
"That's what I'm trying to tell you, sirs. Either everyone's powered down, or—"
"We have visual range," the helmsman announced, interrupting whatever alternative the sensory officer might have provided for the apparent absence of the ships with which they were supposed to rendezvous.
"Good. Put the lieutenant's nothingness on screen. Maybe then we'll get some answers."
The front view screen blinked to life, revealing what looked to be a canvas of empty space. The captain blinked, frowned, and managed a slight 'harrumph.'
"Well..." Then he shook his head. "Are you sure you've got the right coordinates?"
The helmsman, sensory officer, and just about everyone else on the bridge went scrambling over their instruments.
"The navigation computer verifies our position, sir," the helmsman announced. "According to these readings we are approaching the rendezvous coordinates. ETA one minute and… eleven seconds."
"So where in X'Hal's name are they?" the first officer barked.
"We're getting nothing on our energy scans?" the captain asked his sensory officer, who nodded. "Try switching to a sonar scan."
The sensory officer complied and a moment later a series of sonar pings resounded dully in the background as the entire bridge crew directed their attention to ascertaining that this urgent puzzle hadn't arisen out of any error on their part.
"Sonar confirms, sir," the sensory officer announced a few moments later. "We're all alone out here."
The captain's frown only deepened, even as the first officer leaned over to whisper a question into his ear.
"The summons was encrypted?"
"Highest priority," the captain affirmed. "Only top members of the Defense Council have access to those codes."
"So we can't even comm them back."
"Sirs," the helmsman spoke up. "It could be possible that we just got here first."
"Out of seven ships? When we were the furthest away?" The first officer clearly didn't believe that for a moment.
"There could have been delays…" the helmsman obviously didn't believe his own logic, either.
The captain shook his head. "Who else is supposed to be here?
The first officer glanced at the control panel to his left and pressed a few buttons. "Dreadnaughts Slopkaar, T'nermal, and Bliks, along with the heavy cruisers Mandand'r and Glibnak, the light cruiser Tofnorm, and one science vessel, the Lapkul."
The captain frowned again. "No. I know Captain D'Glit. He wouldn't be late to his own execution."
"I don't like this, sir. What could keep a dreadnaught from making the rendezvous?" the first officer couldn't help but ask.
"Nothing I'd care to run into," the captain replied. "Helm—" but his order was cut off by the sudden cry of their proximity alarms.
"Captain! Scanners are picking up tracers from sub-light engines! We've got multiple vectors dropping out of light speed, bearing four-six mark… two-eight!"
"On screen!" the first officer shouted, and instantly the picture of empty space blipped out and an array of green-steeled ships appeared.
"The Citadel!" the helmsman cried.
"They're firing!" the sensory officer shouted in warning, and then suddenly the viewscreen was washed out in a sea of shining light. In that instant the entire ship trembled and shook, sending everyone tumbling.
"Evasive maneuvers!" the captain shouted. "Guns! Return fire!"
"The primary weapons array isn't responding!" the gunnery officer yelled back as the ship pitched and dipped, the internal compensators unable to completely neutralize the feel of the ship dancing away from incoming enemy fire.
"Reroute control through the manual bypass!" the first officer bellowed, just as the ship rocked again. A geyser of sparks erupted from the sensory consol and Lieutenant Barand'r was blown back into his seat before collapsing back down onto his workstation. Green eyes stared unseeing at his reflection in the darkened glass.
"The manual bypass is jammed!" the gunnery officer answered once he regained his footing. "I can't—" This time the lights in the bridge winked out as the ship was pitched from the exploding impact of the Citadelian laser canons. Only half the emergency lights powered up a moment later, and in the sickly shadowed light the captain saw his gunnery officer crumpled over his workstation, blood splatter staining the nearby wall.
"We've lost the lateral controls!" the helmsmen shouted. "We won't be able to hold position!"
"There's an incoming transmission from the Citadel!" the captain heard his first officer announce, and only then did he notice that he was now manning what was left of the sensory controls.
The captain grit his teeth as the transmission played, audio-only.
"THIS IS CITADELIAN OVERLORD MASHNA OF THE SEVENTH ARMADA! POWER DOWN YOUR VESSEL AND PREPARE TO BE BOARDED!"
"That'll be the day," the captain spat. "Death before surrender!" he cried, rising his fist in a warrior's salute.
"Death before surrender!" the remaining bridge crew echoed.
"Set the self-destruct sequence," the captain ordered. "Time-delay thirty seconds."
"Hopefully our shockwave will damage them," the first officer groused, upset but naturally accepting as he keyed in the correct sequence of commands. Then suddenly he swore, loudly, in Okaaran. "Sir! The computer won't respond to the self-destruct codes!"
"What?"
"The command prompts have been changed. I'm trying—" Another blast shook the ship, and the consol next to the first officer blew apart. "D'nict thi X'Hal! We've lost the bridge computer!" There was an edge of panic in the first officer's voice as he turned around, abandoning the now useless consol behind him.
"Only a member of Fleet Command could have overridden our command codes," the captain realized suddenly, but his first officer was already a step ahead of him.
"Sir, we've been sabotaged!"
"TAMARANEAN WARSHIP! IF YOU DO NOT COMPLY YOUR SHIP WILL BE TAKEN BY FORCE!" the harsh voice of the Citadelian Overlord echoed mechanically through the universal translator.
"But, the priority signal—"
"We have been betrayed," the captain's announcement interrupted his helmsman, his voice eerily calm. "Do as he says," he ordered suddenly.
"TAMARANEAN WARSHIP! THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING!"
"Sir?" The first officer didn't believe his ears.
"Do as he says!" the captain repeated, shouting. "If that Citadelian slime insists on coming to visit, let's make sure to give them a proper welcome." With that, the captain ripped open a side panel in his command chair. He removed a laser rifle and tossed it back to his first officer, who caught it with a look of surprise that quickly melted into bloodthirsty anticipation. When the captain removed his own weapon he spared a moment to check it over thoroughly before priming it.
"Death before surrender," he said again, though this time his voice held more resignation than defiance. Then he reached over and pushed a button on his armrest.
"This is the captain speaking," his voice echoed all over the ship. "I want everyone armed and in full battle gear. We're about to receive some very unwelcome guests. Hold the airlocks for as long as you can, then lead them towards the engine room. There's more than one way to blow a ship out of the sky, and when we go I want to take as many of them with us as possible!"
His announcement made, the captain turned to what remained of his bridge crew and an unspoken understanding swept over the room. They each turned and fired on the computer terminals to prevent the Citadel from ever accessing them if their last stand failed and the ship survived. When they were through, the bridge was little more than a smoking husk.
"It's been a privilege," the captain said to his men, just as the blast doors were forced open. A second later and the only sound was the fizzing echo of laser fire.
Sector 2814
Justice League Watchtower
All was quiet.
Usually that was a good thing. At work it meant that he could actually sit at his desk and quite possibly get things done instead of running back and forth between meetings and PR gigs – as if his company would just up and run itself while he was off babysitting VPs and smiling for the camera. On patrol it meant that he could be proactive, could take to the streets and maybe bust up a few crimes as they happened instead of jumping from police emergency to police emergency – as if he had nothing better to do than prance around like the SCPD's personal masked mascot. At home it meant that work was good, that his City was good, and that he could spend the afternoon watching the game instead of worrying about either one of them, especially now that Roy was back and Dinah was on sabbatical in Themyscira.
Yet on the Watchtower, on sentry duty, it meant only one thing.
Green Arrow was bored out of his superly-heroic mind.
Sentry duty wasn't usually such a dead-end gig, but with Superman currently moonlighting for NASA the Martian Manhunter was off practicing his acting skills in Metropolis, and that meant Green Arrow got to be bored to tears all by his lonesome. There wasn't even anyone he could call; Flash was at work, Diana was home (with Dinah, more's the pity), Lantern was busy with the corps, and Hawkman – the insufferable ass – had up and left them weeks ago. Behind his mask, Oliver Queen debated briefly whether or not he should call Bruce Wayne, if only because bugging the Bat at his day job held a certain devious appeal.
Of course, reason eventually outweighed whimsy and the archer decided against it. Aside from the venture not being worth the Bat's eventual retaliation, there was that little matter of their secret identities to worry about, because even if Bruce's desk phone was as secure as WayneTech could make it there were still a few Leaguers who'd be mighty curious as to why Green Arrow felt the need to chat up Bruce Wayne. Which was really too bad, because Ollie really wanted to talk shop – with or without the mask – because the head of Queen Industries wanted a second opinion on some potential tech ventures and Green Arrow's hackles had been up ever since Lantern, Hawkman, and Superman all suddenly had better things to do in outer space.
Or, maybe not.
The proximity alarm suddenly blared to life, the first intruding noise since Ollie stopped spinning in his chair, and in his surprise he barely managed to not fall out of it. When the monitors automatically switched over to an outside view they revealed the shimmering emerald blob growing steadily larger as the seconds ticked by. Apparently Lantern was finally paroled from Oa – and there his communicator just signaled to open the airlock. Ollie grinned. He hadn't seen Hal in nearly two months, and nothing beat the Watchtower Blues like catching up with an old friend.
"Hey buddy, welcome home!"
The first thing Hal Jordan saw when he stepped out of the airlock into the JLA embarkation room was Green Arrow lazing up against one of the bulkheads, hat askew and grinning like mad. He'd expected the Martian Manhunter; finding Ollie was pleasant surprise. He returned the smile wanly, exhaustion bleeding through the gesture despite its sincerity.
"Hey. Didn't expect to find you here."
"Sentry duty," Ollie explained.
"Where's J'onn?"
"Over in Metropolis pretending to be Superman."
"And Superman is...?"
"On loan to NASA."
Hal ran a gloved hand through his hair to scratch at the scraggly ends, half distracted by fact that it was getting a bit too long. "Huh. Weird."
Ollie shrugged. "Don't ask me. I just work here."
Hal snorted a laugh, his lips barely following through. "I'd say the same, but I dunno. I've been gone so long – have they revoked my membership yet?"
Hal had meant that as a joke, and Ollie reflexively paid lip service to the humor, but that comment got him thinking about Hawkman again. And of course, Hal noticed the awkwardness of the gesture.
"What is it?"
Ollie sighed around the effort to put his thoughts into words. "Well, it's funny you should mention membership, because right now we're one cape short, and it ain't yours."
Hal blinked behind his mask, stunned and curious and almost a little nervous.
"Hawkman quit."
"What?" The query came out low and cold. It fell with the stone that suddenly dropped, hard, into the bottom of his gut.
"Yeah. Turned in his communicator, loaded up what little he owned into that ugly-ass shuttle of his, and high-tailed it back to Zanzibar – or wherever the hell he's from."
"Thanagar," Hal absently supplied, his mind already racing light-years ahead. "Shit."
Hal started purposefully towards the doors, but it took Ollie a moment to register the fact. His mind had snagged on Hal's last word, because Green Lantern never swore. Never. It was like hearing Batman laugh, and the cognitive dissonance tripped up the rest of Ollie's mental processes to the point where he suddenly found himself a good eight steps behind.
"Ok, what'd I miss?" he asked, after jogging a bit to catch up to Hal, who'd already made it through the doors and into the corridor.
"Nothing." Lantern didn't even slow down.
Fortunately eight years spent as guardian to one Roy Harper had taught Ollie how roll his eyes and sigh without even breaking stride. "Uh huh, right." The deadpan sarcasm though he'd learned from Dinah.
They made it to the end of the corridor, with Lantern still half a step ahead, and he hit the call button for the elevator with a bit more force than necessary. Seeing as Ollie had just taken it himself not five minutes ago, the doors opened instantly, and Lantern stormed across the threshold as soon as the partition was wide enough. Ollie followed right behind, and saw his friend punch the button to take them back up to the observation deck. He waited until the doors dinged shut again before trying again to get some answers out of his friend.
"Alright GL, what gives?"
Hal's response was a tired sigh as he leaned back against the wall. Reclined, he brought one hand up to rub at his eyes behind the mask. "I don't know," Hal admitted at length. "Maybe it's nothing."
"Maybe what's nothing?"
"Trouble."
"You mean, maybe the trouble is nothing?"
Hal nodded. "Or maybe the nothing is trouble."
"Whoa, man, you been hanging with Dr. Fate lately? Quit talking in circles and tell me straight."
Another sigh, punctuated by the ding of the opening doors. "What do you know about Vega?" Hal asked as he led the way into the room and over towards one of the computers – stellar cartography, Ollie noted.
"The militant vegetarians?"
Hal's lips twitched slightly despite himself. "Vega, not vegan. It's a star roughly 25 light-years from earth."
"Oh. Well in that case I know that it's the brightest star in Lyra, and that people live there – according to J'onn, anyway."
"J'onn's right," Hal affirmed as he used the computer to pull the Vega star chart up onto the main view screen. "There's 22 planets in the Vega system, and almost all of them support life in one form or another."
Ollie took a moment to study the chart. Sure enough, there were 22 green dots, designated V1 through V22, marking each planet's location, and several red dots with long designations starting with A, labeling some fairly large asteroids if Ollie was reading things correctly. "Fascinating," he appraised, dismissively. "And what about trouble?"
"Near as We can tell, millions of years ago a highly advanced race called the Psions chose the Vega System for their research." As always, GL used the Royal We in reference to the Lantern Corps.
Words that only sounded ominous to either a superhero or a sci-fi buff, and Ollie was both. "Dare I ask what kind of research?"
"All kinds, but most extensively in genetics."
Ollie frowned, already sensing where this was going. "And I take it they didn't exactly obey the Prime Directive?"
Hal scoffed. "Oh, that's putting it kindly. They turned the entire star-system into the Island of Dr. Moreau."
"Charming." Ollie pronounced the word as though it left a bad taste in his mouth. "So fast forward millions of years and...?"
"And we've got six distinct species, all decidedly warlike, all well ahead of Earth in terms of science and technology. The only reason the rest of the galaxy hasn't been worried about them is because they've been too busy fighting amongst themselves to bother with anyone outside of Vega."
"And I take it that's about to change?"
"In the short term? Not likely."
"And the long term? What is the long term, anyway?"
Hal's answering scowl signaled that his friend was clearly worried about something – which just served to up Ollie's own worry to somewhere around mild dread.
"That would be the sixty-four thousand dollar question." The words were pensive, Hal's eyes no doubt falling distant behind the mask. It was clear to Ollie that GL's thoughts were floating somewhere far away, orbiting Vega.
"And the grand-prize answer?"
Hal sighed, his gaze drifting to the star chart, as though if he stared at it hard enough the answers just might appear out of thin air. "Vega's a powder keg. When it all goes up, there's a chance the flack might spill over into neighboring systems, but only in the sense that they might see refugee traffic. Earth's a bit far out, but..."
"But?"
"There's still an off chance someone might make for Mars. J'onn was aware of Vega – maybe the feeling's mutual."
Ollie shrugged. "Well then their intel is grossly out of date."
"Maybe. Maybe not. We'll need to be on alert."
"Yeah..." Ollie had no arguments on that score. He also had the sinking suspicion that he didn't have all the pieces to the puzzle yet. "So, refugees huh? We seem to collect them."
It was gallows humor at best, and Hal didn't bite.
"But that's not what you're worried about."
Hal frowned again around a thoughtful pause. "How's your history, Arrow?"
Ollie shrugged. "That depends. My modern is better than my not-so-modern, but I do watch the history channel."
Hal shot him a sideways glance.
"When there's nothing else on, anyway," he amended.
Hal nodded, the ghost of a smile teasing his lips for a moment. "Well, I've got an analogy for you then." He turned his attention back to the view screen. Ollie knew that whatever GL was going to say, he wasn't going to like it.
"Europe."
Ollie blinked. "Europe?"
Hal nodded towards the view screen. "Europe, 1914."
It took Ollie all of two seconds to work that out for himself. Then he grimaced. "Shit."
"Shit is right."
This time Ollie ignored the profanity. "So what are you guys going to do about it?" he asked. Hal hadn't yet mentioned any of Oa's plans.
Lantern bowed his head, his eyes drifting closed. Ollie's seen that gesture before; whenever Hal spoke of his parents, or skated around the classified truth of some of his Air Force stories, and Ollie knew what it meant.
That didn't mean he had to like it.
"Oh, shit. You're not going to do anything, are you. You – the frigg'n intergalactic UN – are just going to sit back and watch an entire system explode into some epic galactic war. Oh, well, that's just great. And what about when the fallout reaches Earth? You going to ignore the problem then, too?"
"I don't like it either," Hal admitted, though he didn't sound frustrated or defensive or anything else Ollie might have been expecting. Instead he just sounded tired, and Ollie suddenly got the impression that Hal had been through this argument a number of times already.
Ollie sighed. "The Jedi Council wouldn't listen to you, huh?"
Hal just barely smiled, acknowledgment of Ollie's faith in him. "I wasn't the only one, but I'm afraid ours was the minority vote.
"And can I ask why the Lantern Corps is choosing to deliberately ignore its own doctrine?"
Hal didn't hesitate. Instead he all but spat the explanation out like poison. "Because the Guardians created the Psions."
It took Ollie a moment to connect the dots, but then he decided to ignore them in favor of the more pertinent question. "And what does that have to do with anything?"
"Can't you guess? They think the best way to deal with their mistake is to bury their heads in the sand and hope it all just goes away on its own."
So strong was Hal's bitterness that Ollie could practically taste it on his own tongue. "Wonderful," he droned, but then suddenly he remembered— "And where does Hawkman fit into all this?"
To this question, Hal smirked. Or at least he bared his teeth. And he turned his ring into a laser pointer, illuminating planet V7. "Right there," he said. "On Thanagar."
Ollie remembered how Hal had hedged around the matter of Vega's intel, and— "Oh. Oh fuck, no. I may not like Hawkman – actually, I may really dislike him – but that doesn't mean I don't trust him." Then he winced. "Well ok, I don't trust him – never did – but that's not – I don't think he'd betray us, I mean. Because he wouldn't." Ollie paused to swallow around the growing lump in his throat. "Would he?"
"Earth is too primitive to be of any tactical assistance to anyone in Vega," was Hal's answer. "And in case any of them have any colonialist leanings, we're too far away to face an immanent threat."
Ollie rolled his eyes – a gesture hidden by his mask. "Oh, so it's not that Hawkman won't betray us, it's just that his superiors won't be able to do anything with his information. Great. Real comforting."
Hal shrugged. "Tactically..."
And Ollie blew out a huge sigh. "Yeah. Yeah, I get it. I don't like it, but I get it. So I guess the question is: what do we do about it?"
"Do we know what Superman is doing? Or when he'll be back?"
Ollie knew that wasn't Hal changing the subject; it was Hal thinking three steps ahead. "Not a clue what he's doing, but he said it wouldn't take long. Day or two, tops."
"Then we wait for him."
"You know his thing with NASA could just be coincidence, right?"
"Oh probably, but he needs to hear this anyway."
"And in the meantime?"
Hal's grin was slight, barely noticeable really, but it finally erred on the side of sincerity for once instead of a perverse mockery of humor. That had to count for something, Ollie figured. He just didn't know what.
"What else? We wait."
"If you pushed the panic button we could get everyone here inside an hour."
"And what would I tell them? There's no immanent threat here. Just the potential for a minor one."
"What about the likely breach of JLA security? They'd sure as hell want to know about that – even Arthur would show up!"
"Even if Hawkman left the same day I did it would still take him..." and Hal's fingers flew over the keyboard, and math way above Ollie's head appeared on the screen. "Another two weeks before he reached Thanagar."
"Not if he modified his shuttle with Kryptonian tech it wouldn't."
Hal shook his head. "Their systems are incompatible. He would have had to gut the engines and redesign the whole thing. I think someone would have noticed."
"So you're saying we have two weeks before we should start to worry?"
"Something like that." Hal didn't sound too convinced, but then Ollie understood where he was coming from. Even if took Hawkman another two weeks before he could spill Earth's secrets – not to mention the JLA's – to his superiors, and even with there being little chance that any action would be taken in any relevant timeframe, that hardly changed the fact that the prospect would stay hanging above their heads like the sword of Damocles. And maybe Hal could be pragmatic about it, but that didn't mean that it was easy for him.
"You should head home then," Ollie told him, his voice perhaps a bit too studiously casual. "Grab a shower at least."
"Yeah..." Another sigh, this one slumping Hal's shoulders with it. "Yeah." Green energy poured out from Hal's ring and enveloped him. "See you soon." He let himself hover over to the door.
"Yeah," Ollie echoed as the doors swished opened. "Soon."
Moments later and Green Arrow was alone on the Watchtower again. He went back to the star map and stared into the two-dimensional planes of the Vega system. Hawkman was a sanctimonious sonofabitch, but then he'd always come through for them when it mattered most. Ollie could believe in a heartbeat that Hawkman would tell his superiors that Mars was dead and Earth was too primitive to bother with – and with much laughing and fun-poking at Earth's expense, to boot – but Ollie absolutely refused to believe that his fellow Leaguer would sell them all upriver. Now, maybe that was naïveté, but Ollie liked to think he possessed enough self-awareness to be able to separate subjective dislike from objective assessment. At least, he hoped so anyway, because if not then Earth could be thoroughly and royally screwed.
Sector 2828
Tamaran
Princess Kormand'r stood at the view-port of her small shuttle as her crew ran through their pre-landing checklists. No matter how many times she'd done this, or how many times she may yet do this, still, there wasn't a sight in the galaxy that could ever compare to the view of her beloved Tamaran from low landing-queue orbit. The molten reds of the Glarthnaal Mountains softening down into the burnished golds of the Viskul Steppes crosscut with the latticework of agricultural zones; the shimmering emerald of the Klorthgan Sea as it brushed up against the dusky coastland speckled with boats, tiny grey insects from this distance; the spires of Her beautiful, bountiful cities scraping at the lavender sky in fingers of pearl and silver and adamant; and lastly the sprawling capital of Hasdragaal growing steadily larger before her eyes, with the Towers of Government slowing rising up to meet them as though Great Tamaran Herself was reaching out to cradle them in the palm of Her mighty hand.
Yes, Kormand'r loved her home planet, first, foremost, and best.
It was the one fact that allowed her to sleep at night.
Finally her pilot announced that they were next in line for landing, and as the shuttle began it slow and steady descent through the troposphere the viewport was obscured by the swirling violet of Tamaran's nominal cloud-cover. Though the ship was essentially flying blind – provenance of X'Hal and machines – Kormand'r felt its movement in her bones: when their painstakingly gradual drop began to pick up speed as they got caught up in Tamaran's gravitational pull and then the slight head-rush that was her shuttle's internal compensators adjusting for the pull of terminal velocity; when the sudden, gut-yanking lurch meant that the landing thrusters had fired and that their speed was reducing exponentially with every passing second; when the sudden rubbery-ness of her limbs meant that the shuttle's artificial gravity reset itself and then powered down; and then lastly the all-pervading hiss that was their stale, recycled air finally venting with the outside atmosphere. Any minute now, she'd begin to hear her crew begin the post-landing checklist, and her minders would come to fetch her for her own pre-disembarkation ablutions.
"Milady?"
And right on schedule. Kormand'r nearly smiled. Leeltj was one of the most competent valets she'd ever had. The girl was a complete dunderhead but she did know fashion, and she was unfailingly gentle in assuring that her Princess was always most suitably presented.
That didn't mean that Kormand'r had to enjoy the process, however. She sighed dramatically. "Oh, must we?"
Leeltj frowned. "Yes, Milady." Her answer was entirely serious.
"What's the point? I'm just going to head straight home from here. I'm not even stopping by the office first."
"It's the law, Milady," Leeltj flawlessly reminded her, and Kormand'r scowled. Ah yes. The idiot protocols that governed the Royal Family's public appearances. Those particular grievances were her grandmother's fault and they sat squarely atop the laundry list of changes that Kormand'r was planning to make to Tamaran's Body of Law.
"Of course it is," Kormand'r scoffed, but her tone was completely lost on poor Leeltj, who was still waiting patiently at the door.
"Come, Milady. I have your arrival attire all planned out. It won't take but a minute to see you properly adorned."
Leeltj's ideas of 'but a minute' were entirely out of sync with the rest of the world, Kormand'r was sure, but then they sooner they started the sooner she could escape her valet's well-meaning clutches. "Oh, very well," she agreed with a put-upon sigh. "But do you think we could leave my hair alone this time? I'm just going to wash it when I get in, anyway."
"I'll be very quick, Milady," came Leeltj's very telling non-answer, and there was nothing else for it. Kormand'r followed her valet back to her suite. She really didn't mind the girl, truth be told. For all that Leeltj had the intellectual capacity of a lamppost at least she didn't deign to speak on matters she knew nothing about – or perhaps more importantly, on matters that didn't concern her at all.
When she was queen, Kormand'r vowed to keep Leeltj in her employ. Good valets were had to come by, after all, and she wasn't above admitting that she'd need professional advice on dressing for her adoring masses.
Leeltj's 'but a minute' was actually closer to thirty, but relatively speaking that was almost a rush job. The robes she'd picked were tastefully simple and the hairstyle intricate and yet subdued. Kormand'r couldn't help that she approved of the overall effect, and Leeltj was rather disgustingly pleased with the smile her Princess bestowed upon her efforts.
"Please Milady, but I must remind you that it is nearly time for the changeover to your summer wardrobe."
Oh, right. The quadrennial fashion evolution. "What, already?" She'd just endured the last go-round right before this latest trip, and now here it was that time again and Kormand'r hadn't even had the chance to wear less than a quarter of what Leeltj had ordered for her. What a colossal waste of time and resources.
"Indeed, Milady. The arrangements have already been taken care of, save the fittings. Those should be held as soon as possible – whenever Milady's schedule permits, of course."
"First thing, then," Kormand'r decided, and Leeltj positively beamed. Kormand'r didn't have the heart to tell her that it wasn't out of any sense of enthusiasm. Rather she just wanted the whole idiot business to be over with as soon as possible.
X'Hal willing, it would be the last of such fittings she'd ever have to endure. Or at least, the last that she couldn't tackle piecemeal and on her own time.
There were times, Kormand'r reflected, when she was certain that her bizarre affection for Leeltj was going to prove to be terribly inconvenient.
Then suddenly the main door chimed – and that would be her escorts. Really. As if Kormand'r actually needed bodyguards. Though, the smokescreen that she was the weakest link in the Royal Line was definitely an asset.
"Enter!"
"If you're ready, Princess?" It was Blork, chief of the Idiot Brigade that made up her personal guard. Grim, serious, and wholly devoted to her father, Blork tended to view her as particularly fragile ornament of the Royal Palace, and one that couldn't rescue herself from a wet paper sack if all of Vega depended on it. Please. As if she spent years lobbying for the role of Ambassador to Okaara for its uninspiring views and retch-worthy cuisine.
"After you," Kormand'r gestured, politely formal because she knew Blork would bristle at the prospect of having to place her personal safety above etiquette's response to Courtly Manners – and that was another ridiculous set of outdated edicts Kormand'r couldn't wait to be rid of.
Too bad Blork wouldn't live to see the day.
Kormand'r hadn't yet decided if she should be gracious enough to allow him to die believing himself a hero because, overconfident lummox or not, he'd been the head of her guard since she was knee-high to his X-237. Of course, she was also of a mind to take him down herself in unarmed combat, because every time she imaged the look on his face when he realized not only had she finally mastered the art of flight but that she'd also learned fifty-seven different ways of handing him his own ass without even having to avail herself of that ancestral privilege, the picture very nearly left her cackling in unholy glee.
Her six-man team of bodyguards kept her perfunctorily surrounded for the half-minute walk from the landing pad across to where the royal car was idling patiently. Then her escorts all piled into the trail-car; all except for Blork, who climbed in the cab with her driver. Kormand'r actually smiled a bit. Varand'r had only a year or so left before retirement. One of her first orders of business once she returned to her Homeworld Office would be to grant him a sudden, impromptu vacation to some inclusive resort far, far away from any of Tamaran's major cities. She owed him that much, at least.
The ride from the Executive Landing Bay across the sprawling eyesore that was Government Center and unto the Royal Palace was unsurprisingly uneventful, and Kormand'r spent the duration marveling at how Tamaran's architects had no concepts of aesthetics or economic usage of space – morons, the whole lot of them, past, present, and undoubtedly future – that it was a mercy when the motorcade finally docked in the Royal Garage. From there Blork's team escorted her into the Royal Elevators and up into the Royal Foyer – where thankfully their duty ended. At least palace security was elegantly nondescript. Great-grandfather knew what he was doing when he designed the system, Kormand'r gave him that.
Why was it that the only of her relatives she could stomach were the ones she met in her history texts?
"Kormi!"
Then the sudden, shrill sound of her brother's voice and Kormand'r instantly felt guilty for the thought. She smiled softly, sadly to herself and turned just in time to be 'surprised' by Ryand'r barreling into her torso, full-head of flight. She caught him deftly about the shoulders and then it was a simple thing to engineer their fall, and it allowed him the illusion that he'd managed to knock her off her feet. She landed safely, squarely, on her back, and grinned all the wider for how their antics would spoil all of Leeltj's painstaking work.
"Hiya, squirt." Supine, Kormand'r mussed the short shock of bright red hair, grateful that he was still able to get away with sabotaging his own valet's attempts to tame the unruly mop. Ryand'r squirmed, and the soprano trill of a little-boy's laughter echoed through the foyer.
"Hey, quit it!" He batted her hands away.
"If you say so." And just like that she started tickling his ribs instead. Her brother only laughed harder, a delighted squeal as he flew back up and away as best as he was able. Which wasn't all that, truth be told, because Ryand'r was still coming into his powers. His body's center of gravity hadn't truly evened out yet – he still had a few more growth spurts to get through first – and his flight was awkward and gangly, much like the boy himself.
Kormand'r shoved herself back onto her feet as Ryand'r got his errant trajectory back under control. He landed beside his sister and wrapped his arms around her in (what he hoped was) a breath-stealing squeeze. Kormand'r rewarded him with a feigned grunt, and hugged him back with barely a fraction of her total strength.
"Dad said you'd probably be home today." His voice was muffled for the way his face was nuzzling the lush velvet of her outer robe.
"Oh he did, did he? Is that why you're here and not at the Academy where you belong?"
Ryand'r pulled back. "Uh huh. Got a two-day pass."
"Is that so? Well, why don't you follow me up to my chambers, then. You can fill me in on all the juicy gossip that I've missed for being away."
"All right!" You'd have thought Kormand'r had asked him if wouldn't mind skipping out of class. "Can I fly us there? Please-please-please, Kormi? Can I fly us?"
It was a definite character flaw. X'Hal, it was a liability even, but Kormand'r was somehow pathologically incapable of denying her little brother anything. Not when he always looked to her like she'd hung the moons.
"If you drop me – or crash – then I'm sending you straight to Ginstak," she warned him. The threat of being forced to work for the Palace Cook had always cowed the Royal Children, and Ryand'r was no different. He paled slightly, but then he rebounded with an even wider grin.
"I won't," he promised, voice full of a child's self-assurance. "I've been practicing on Kori."
"Is that so?" Kormand'r willed herself down to the right side of civil. Just the mention of her sister's name was enough to blacken her mood.
"Uh huh, but don't worry. I'm getting really good at it."
Kormand'r kept her mouth shut and instead focused on maintaining a slight levitation beginning the moment Ryand'r swept her up into his arms. It certainly wouldn't do for anyone to suspect she was anything but the lightweight they all presumed her to be, and the added weight of muscle she'd packed on lately was likely enough to overwhelm her brother's intermittently increasing strength. It was surely a comical sight, given that she was still a good two heads taller than him, but nevertheless Kormand'r warped her longer arms about his neck and allowed him to play up the image of the dashing knight errant to the proverbial hilt.
"Alright, now hold on…"
As if she wasn't doing that already, but Kormand'r merely tightened her arms a bit as her brother launched them into the air.
It was a cautious flight at best, slow and not just a little bit wobbly, but then Kormand'r was willing to chalk the speed up to Ryand'r being cautious, either in the face of her earlier threat or because he truly didn't have as much confidence in his burgeoning abilities that he'd claimed.
It was a fair distance from the Palace Foyer to the Royal Apartments, and even then Kormand'r's own chambers were as isolated as one could get while still being in the same general wing, but even if they'd made the trek on foot it likely wouldn't have taken as long as this flight was probably going to. All boasts aside, Ryand'r had likely been 'practicing on Kori' because, quite bluntly, he needed all the help he could get. His in-flight sense of equilibrium was precarious enough on its own, and then counterbalancing the added front-end weight of a passenger in his arms on top of that required the whole of his concentration, just to keep from nose-diving. By the time they arrived outside of her door Ryand'r was trembling and sweaty, and Kormand'r was more than ready for the flight to be over.
"Ryand'r!"
Kormand'r reflexively cringed. That was their father's voice, booming now in obvious reprimand. The King of Tamaran might have been about as useful as grebnaks on a thrusgull, politically speaking, but he was still the undisputed disciplinarian of the family. Ryand'r seemed torn between being immensely pleased with himself for completing the flight without mishap (and never mind that Kormand'r had allowed herself to levitate more and more out of his grip, easing the strain on his arms without his even noticing) and suddenly fearing that he was about to be punished for the deed.
Kormand'r stepped forward, all studiously formal and immaculately polite, the picture of what the doddering old buffoon expected of his eldest. "Greetings, father. I really must express just how far Ryand'r has progressed in his studies of aerodynamics. A credit to his tutors, I am sure."
"What?" The King was suddenly flustered. "Oh – er – yes. Yes he is, at that." But then he glared down at his only son. "No matter that we keep reminding him not to conduct his studies inside of doors."
"Oh, but it was for Kormi, dad," Ryand'r protested, violet eyes wide and impossibly sincere, and it was the perfect expression to melt their father's heart.
"Right, right. Of course." His stern countenance softened as he was yet again reminded of the tragedy that was his eldest daughter's supposed defect. When it came to the Royal Lineage, unable to fly obviously meant unable to think, unable to fend for oneself, unable to contribute anything remotely useful to society. Kormand'r was never more than a slightly taller child in her parents' eyes, and X'Hal but she hated them for that. Ryand'r was the only one who never treated her differently, probably because he never really thought of her as being 'disabled' in the first place.
"And welcome home, Kormand'r my treasure," the King was saying, regressing back to that insufferably paternal tone he'd favored them with when they were small. She was the only one who was never allowed to outgrow the consideration. "I trust that affairs on Okaara are the same as they ever were?"
"Indeed they are, father," she informed him, a warm glow suffusing her at the thought of their supposed allies' true opinions of her people. The Okaarans held the Tamaraneans to be arrogant, primitive, willfully ignorant, far too steeped in their decidedly backwards traditions, and entirely unable to find the path towards enlightenment even with both hands and a chart – and those opinions most certainly hadn't changed a bit. It was only by expressing a desire to study at the feet of the Okaaran Masters that Kormand'r set herself apart, and it was only through proving herself worthy of being taught that she finally earned their blessing.
"Good, good. That's very good. Your mother and I are very proud of you, Kormand'r."
"Thank you, father." A slight bow and a bashful little grin – the only outward evidence that Kormand'r was busily cataloging nineteen unique ways in which she could physically stuff his supposed pride through all the orifices that good little girls weren't supposed to mention in polite company.
"Yes, well. I should let the two of you catch up," he said to Ryand'r, not only dismissing her entirely but talking over her too, as if she was the younger sibling and Ryand'r the responsible one. "No doubt you and your sister have a lot to talk about. Good night, my treasures!" There he kissed Kormand'r's cheek and dropped a hand onto Ryandr's head in benediction before continuing down the corridor, doubtless bound for the Royal Suites.
His death would be slow, Kormand'r vowed. Long and lingering down in the belly of a Gordanian spice mine. And his entire cabinet would be traded to the H'San Natall Minister of Entertainment for a dernt-feather coat and a pair of kamly shoes. She'd just have to make sure Ryand'r was otherwise occupied when they broadcasted next season's gladiatorial games.
"C'mon, Kormi, open the door! I have to tell you about the prank I pulled on the deputy headmaster!"
Kormand'r's mind returned to the present with a jolt neatly coinciding with her brother slapping her arm as he tried to recapture her attention. She watched him bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet, the motion ever-so-slightly (and likely unconsciously) aided by sputtering flight impulses, and she had to bite back a grin because finally and at ever long last she knew what it was like to be nearly overcome with the visceral joy that triggered the gift of flight. Now very soon, that joy would be made tangible, and her late-blooming talent would be hidden no longer.
"Sure thing, squirt." She pressed her palm to the scanner and the locks disengaged. The door to her chambers swung open with minimal flourish and Kormand'r gestured for her brother to precede her. Ryand'r flew across the threshold with a joyous whoop.
Soon, she thought as she followed sedately on foot behind him, that one thought making her own steps suspiciously lighter.
Yes, very soon.