Miran hadn’t slept in two days.
She’d tried, laid in her stateroom’s cot for eight hours, hoping to be finally granted a moment of rest. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t help but see Linden Kide and the other faces in the crate. And every time she felt herself about to drift away, a gunshot would echo in her ears.
On the second night, Miran hadn’t even attempted sleep. Instead, she spent the night going over plans laid out by Ha, who himself seemed to have been able to expunge the events in cold storage from his mind. For him, it was business as usual. Except, Miran knew he was only acting to be unperturbed, with most of his bulletins to her bearing timestamps deep in the small hours of the ship’s morning.
Going over Ha’s fourth set of revisions for the sky parade, Miran seemed to lose interest. And in the final hours of night two, or what Miran supposed was morning, she found herself suited up in athletic kit and heading for the sepak court.
Bouncing the sepak ball against the wooden floorboards, Miran could feel a shred of her frustration over the past few days sluff away. She kicked the ball high as it rebounded off of the gymnasium wall. Then, with all her rage and fury bundled tightly into her foot, she lept, twirled foot-over-head to impact the ball. The ball was sent sailing over the net as it impacted the court on the opposing side in a hard spike.
“Still got it,” A quiet voice from behind her said.
Miran stopped and turned to see Nichi standing at the end of the court, smiling.
“I can see a lot is bothering you. I don’t remember the last time you came down to my courts just to practise,” he said.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Miran said, matter-of-fact.
“That’s plain to my eyes,” Nichi said warmly. “Anything you want to discuss?”
Miran thought about it for a moment. What she wouldn’t give to have someone to talk to about this, to discuss her concerns in herself, her fear of the unknown threat aboard her flock.
“No.”
“Well, even still. You may be my matriarch, but I’ll always be your tutor,” Nichi said. “Don’t forget it.”
“I won’t,” she said.
Nichi nodded, turning to head for his office. He paused as if he was going to say something more, only to stop himself and disappear inside the doorframe.
Miran kept at the motions of rebounding the ball, only to spike it over the net and walk to retrieve it for what felt like hours. She thought of all the people she was to lead, to be strong for. It wasn’t them that deserved a weak leader. She thought about calling the whole thing off, postponing the summit or cancelling it outright. No, she thought, too much effort and resources had been devoted to it already. Not to mention Lawson Ha would kill her for it.
She thought about resigning as matriarch. She would serve until another stronger leader could be chosen from the populace, of course. But that would take time, and leaving the flock without a leader right now would be foolish. Instead, she opted to do nothing, not change a thing, and continue as planned to keep kicking the ball over the net in cathartic rhythm.
Days later, the Cattleheart flock, encumbered by the horde of goods and additional citizens taken aboard on Valen, was due to depart. Over the last few days, Miran had been granted several sleepful nights through the aid of pharmaceuticals, enough at least to keep her rage from blooming into mania.
Soren had met with her several times, expressing his concerns for the journey and for the murderer still at large in their midst. She quelled his concerns, urging that shutting things down now – despite how much she wished she could – would only satisfy the perpetrator’s goals only that much sooner. The best they could do, she insisted, was to stay the course.
After detaching from dock, Miran thanked the Valen orbital docks’ station master for hosting them over the past two months. Satisfied with her halfhearted gesture, she knew she had an important issue to deal with. Something that had been weighing on her mind. She directed her bridge staff to make the necessary preparations to exit the system and make for rift travel. Having no access to a natural rift in Valen, the flock would have to traverse the space to Bordeaux’s Folly through in-built rift drives alone. It would be slower by several magnitudes, but her terminal’s readout put arrival in the Bordeaux system two weeks from then.
Leaving the bridge, Miran made for the lift to take her to the habitation levels. Walking the slim corridors of a realm she hadn’t been a part of for three years, since her name day as matriarch and her sequestration to the estate levels of the flagship. She walked the halls, grazing the cold metal of the handrails with her fingertips. It was a surreal homecoming, in a way.
She followed the turns of the halls, finally arriving at the door of one of the apartments. Looking up, she read the placard above the door frame marked: Kide. Miran knocked.
An elderly woman accompanied by a small girl answered the door, forlorn. The woman was gaunt and haphazardly dressed. It was evident to Miran that the girl had been crying.
“Matriarch, come in. Come in,” The woman said.
“Thank you, Ms. Kide,” Miran said, stepping inside. From the file Miran had poured over several times since the tragedy, she had familiarised herself with the whole of the Kide family. Especially the ones who survived the loss of Linden and Handen. Miran knew the older woman as Tse Ling Kide, Handen’s mother.
“You must be Davina,” Miran said, stooping to address the small girl. Her hair was matted and frayed, her dress stained from several days of wear. Miran could see that the family wasn’t coping well.
“Sit, sit,” Tse Ling said, gesturing toward their meagre living room. Miran sat, despite her discomfort in what she was about to tell them.
Just before sitting, Tse Ling shuffled off into the kitchen. Coming back, she carried with her a tray of fresh-baked Chinese sweets and three cups of steaming green tea. Miran accepted one of each, biting into the treat and washing it down with a swig from the mug. Surprisingly tasty, Miran knew that the woman had prepared the treats just for her visit, tasting hints of several spices that were hard to come by in the flock.
“Delicious. Thank you,” she said, making every effort to be polite.
“Where’s daddy?” Davina said, her eyes burning straight through Miran’s. Miran nearly choked on her tea.
“Davina, manners!” Tse Ling said. “Let her at least finish her tea first.”
“No, it’s okay,” Miran said. “That is why I’ve come, after all.”
Miran breathed deep. She had run this through her head many times – whether or not she should tell the Kides of their fathers’ and son’s fate. She knew they deserved closure, at the very least.
“You have heard of what befell your son, Handen, have you not?” Miran asked.
“Yes… yes,” Tse Ling said sorrowfully. “News travels fast on this ship, even the worst of it.”
Miran nodded in agreement. She glanced over at Davina, who was holding back tears. Gods, she thought, this girl is strong.
“Well,” she continued, “I have come to tell you of what happened to Linden and why Handen did what he did.”
“You know about papa?” Davina said, using a different moniker for her other father.
“Yes, I do,” Miran said regretfully. A tear began to seep from Tse Ling in anticipation of more terrible news.
“I and a team of my best are investigating the missing persons. On a tip,” Miran lied, “we followed a lead to the cargo department, which led us to cross paths with Handen.”
“You knew daddy and papa?!” Davina said, oddly proud at a time like this.
“Yes, I did,” Miran said, reassuring the girl. Tse Ling nudged the girl to not interrupt.
Miran then continued to explain the events that led to her finding the bodies in cold storage, sparing Tse Ling and Davina of any of the gory details. When she finished, Davina slumped back in her chair, void across her face.
“Papa and daddy are gone?” Davina said.
“Yes, dear,” Tse Ling said, heartbreak written on her wrinkled face.
“I am so sorry,” Miran said. “I know this is hard to hear, even from me.”
“It’s best it came from you, dear,” Tse Ling said. Miran nodded.
“What now?” Tse Ling asked, “Do you know who did this?”
“We have leads,” she partly lied. “I would ask a favour of you and Davina, however.”
“Favour? Favour!” Davina said, getting from her seat. She glided into the next room and yelled for her wallscreen to shut the door behind her.
“Sorry about that,” Tse Ling apologised. “A favour? Of course, anything to help you, Matriarch.”
“I need you to keep this, what I told you just now, between us. It is a very sensitive matter, and it will complicate our investigation should the word about the missing persons spread.”
“I understand,” Tse Ling said, “You have your reasons; it’s not for me to question a matriarch. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I have a confused and angry young woman to talk to. Thank you for being honest with us.”
Tse Ling showed Miran out before closing the door behind her. Miran only just noticed she was still holding a mug of tea and a half-eaten sugar cookie. She finished the last bite and rested the mug against the apartment door, not wanting to disturb them further.
Days passed in their voyage between stars and still, nothing. No sign of the murderer could be detected, and no other bodies had turned up. Not even an anonymous tip had been reported. For all intents and purposes, normality had begun encroaching back in. Feeling she may not be doing enough and against Soren and Dominado’s best wishes, Miran decided more action was needed. She called a meeting of her task force, this time roping in the Federation Security Forces head, Lieutenant Olajide Ogunye.
Walking into their macabre secret workspace, Ogunye was perplexed. He scanned the room twice over before he noticed the matriarch in his presence.
Bowing, he said, “Lieutenant Olajide Ogunye, reporting as requested.”
“Thank you, Olajide,” Miran said, “Have a seat, and we’ll get started.”
The team had rearranged the terminals in the room to the outer wall, banishing the stacks of boxes to the backroom. In the centre, Miran had had an oaken table from her estate level brought in late one evening, paying off the movers with a week’s paid leave aboard The Hammerfist before the flock’s departure.
“Lieutenant, you have been requesting more access for details surrounding the tragedy,” Miran started.
“I would also like to know why this colourful group,” he gestured to the team, “has been given authority over my staff, without my express knowledge.”
“I am sorry for that, Olajide. It was a matter of dire importance that we secure the area of the tragedy. Your Security Forces, though left in the dark on this particular matter, were in a unique position to react in timely organisation.”
“Kept in the dark…” Ogunye said, “I wonder, my matriarch, what else your office has been hiding from me? And who are these people, this team?”
Miran went around the room introducing everyone, each giving a half-cocked salute when came their turn, even Stanley.
“Why were you kept in the dark? Discretion. It was – still is – of dire importance that we restricted access to minimise the risk of a leak. You understand, of course,” Miran said.
“Of course…” Ogunye said, not buying it. “So what was it that required the creation of this secret police force?”
Miran hadn’t thought of it that way. Although well within her rights as matriarch to create extra-governmental entities, she hadn’t considered what impact that might have on the respect she showed to those who served under her. Maybe she was going about this the wrong way.
“Only just before the tragedy did we discover additional details surrounding the missing persons,” Miran said, brushing aside her own concerns for now.
“And, well, what?” Ogunye said, growing impatient. “What is it that you had me skulk down here like a common criminal?”
“It’s alien, sir,” Bullman interrupted, “Our bioscans detected it boarding from The Hammerfist.”
Soren shot Bullman a glance for interrupting.
“Yes, Olajide,” Soren said, being of equal rank to the lieutenant, “It, whatever it is, boarded The Dream of Earth aboard a maintenance craft docking in the cargo levels.” Soren flicked a schematic of the shuttle’s path onto the wallscreen behind Ogunye, which he swivelled to face.
“Alien, how? Is it vass?” Ogunye asked.
“No,” Wellei said, “the bioscan of the unidentified alien doesn’t match our historical records or recent scans of our vasseri passengers. It’s not quisabar, fels, or alfar either.”
“How is this possible? This must be some kind of ruse,” Ogunye said, incredulous.
“Afraid it’s far from, Olajide. And that’s why we need your help,” Miran stressed.
Ogunye straightened in his chair with a sense of forthcoming duty. “Tell me what I can do.”
“We need your best to scour the flock for any traces matching this bioscan,” Miran said as Bullman handed over a dusty datachip. “And we need your discretion.”
“As matriarch, you will have it,” Ogunye said. “I may disagree with your methods, question them even, but duty is sacred. You will have my support.”
“Good, that’s refreshing to hear,” said Miran.
“Is there anything else?” Ogunye said, standing. “I would very much like to begin the hunt for this interloper.”
“Soren, anything to add?” Miran asked.
“Only that we are still your partners in this. We will be working closely with you and your office to solve this for Herd and matriarch.”
“For the Herd!” the team said in unison. “For the Matriarch!”
Miran spent much of the intervening days in a circle. She would wake in a groggy haze from her nightly drugs, dress and review Ha’s latest round of revisions. Following that, she would head for the taskforce’s hideout to catch up, hoping for new details that would never come. Afterwards, she would do her matriarchal duties. She would finish her day with a light dinner, if any, alone. Then, a few hours before bed every night, she found herself back in kit at the gym wailing on the sepak. Several times players of the Alders and other minor teams would join her, unaware of the reason for her distress, there to practise in anticipation of their upcoming matches. Miran welcomed the company as well as the challenge, finding herself woefully out of shape when compared to these seasoned players.
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After sepak, Miran would sit on one of the estate level’s observation decks. Not many of the ships had dedicated decks that were exposed to the space outside. Much of the utilitarian fleet didn’t allow for it, with ships designed with densely thick hulls and plating with little need for observation decks, let alone any portholes or windows. It was one of the luxuries as matriarch that she actually appreciated.
Staring out at the starless black of riftspace, Miran caught herself wondering where the murderer was, what they were doing at this very moment. While she sat in her loungewear, sipping an evening tea, her flock was being persecuted by an unknown menace. What could she do but try to contain the fever pitch that might erupt should everything come to light or to try to keep calm the anguish that ate her from the inside.
Miran reached over to grab a puff pastry from a pile that Tse Ling Kide has sent her in thanks for her candour. Wishing her the best, Miran had attempted to send back payment for the copious treats and the work that went into decorating them all, but Tse Ling vehemently refused. A note had come with it, penned by a child. In it, Davina thanked the matriarch for her visit in a gesture of amenity, which Miran could see was strongly suggested by Davina’s grandmother.
When the Dream and the rest of the flock finally exited riftspace, Miran found herself still sitting in her lounge chair on the observation deck and suddenly awestruck with the flood of a universe of stars popping into existence. In contrast to the blackless void that was riftspace, the stars shone with blinding fury.
Miran’s terminal buzzed. A text bulletin from Lawson Ha flashed on her screen; Your shuttle is ready, Matriarch.
It was time. Time to get ready, to put on a face, and lean into the distraction of the summit and Parade. She quickly dressed in her matriarchal dress robes, a silken robe coloured in burnt ochre and woven on one of the biofactory ships in the flock paired with her most elegant pair of comfortable leather shoes she could find in her dense closet. She knew a day of endless walking was ahead of her. She tied her hair back in a loose, flowing knot before fastening it with two sticks passed down by her grandmother.
As she walked the halls of the common levels of the Dream, turning out onto the wide thoroughfare, she was greeted by adoring citizens who had turned out to get a glimpse at the matriarch’s glamorous outfit on such an occasion. The meeting of two Herd strongholds of humanity was as much a matter of ceremony as it was a celebration, and she was at the center of it.
Lawson, Soren, Bullman and Olajide greeted Miran outside the shuttle depot. Each of them adorned in Federation uniform as much as she was; Olajide and Soren in crisp naval jackets and freshly steamed trousers, Lawson in as gaudy a robe as hers. Miran caught herself wondering if Lawson had been indulging himself a little too much with the privileged access she had given him. She rolled her eyes.
“First of the sky parades is about to begin,” Lawson said, ignoring her stare, “Your shuttle is set to be the centrepiece of it all, the grand finale if you will.”
Miran nodded, and Lawson hurried on board through the open shuttle doors. Apparently, he had invited himself into the summit. Bullman followed him in, taking a seat.
“Lieutenant Ogunye,” Miran said, offering him a bow.
He returned the gesture, saying, “everything has gone smoothly in preparation of the summit, and not a whisper of your ghost.”
“Good,” She said, not wanting to be reminded of the scourge that plagued her. Ogunye smiled and walked off, directing a cohort of security force troopers to board a separate shuttle as he followed behind.
“Ready?” Soren asked with a sigh.
“Must I?” Miran joked.
Soren laughed, “You’ll do fine. You and Lawson have planned for this.”
“Knowing him, we’ve planned for this thing a hundred times over,” Miran said, a sardonic smile pursing her lips.
“That’s the truth. And please do your best to focus on the summit. It’s not every day an event like this happens, after all. Leave the taskforce to me.” Soren affirmed.
“Thanks, Soren,” Miran said, not wanting to take the first step onto the shuttle.
“Miran,” Soren said, breaking ceremony, “These are dark times, indeed. But if anyone can pull us through this, it’s you.”
Miran nodded, her tamped frustration wanting to spill out, causing only to make her eyes begin to glisten.
“Be hard, Matriarch. Remember your oath to your people. Be the light that they need. That is your charge,” said Soren behind a grin. Without another word, he stepped aboard the shuttle and strapped himself in beside Bullman. Miran looked at the two of them – mentor and protege – together and caught herself wondering if in twenty years it would be Bullman bolstering an unsure and wavering Soren Djucovik.
Stepping on board and finding her seat next to the pilot, the shuttle doors shut behind her with a hiss.
“Well, should be fun,” Wellei said from one of the seats at the back, her face buried in her terminal. Miran walked right past her when boarding and hadn’t even noticed she was there.
“Welcome aboard Wellei, is Stanley the only one left behind?” Miran asked.
“Said he wanted to fly down in his own ship, skip over the festivities and beat the rush to a few restaurants in the city,” Bullman said.
“Typical civilian. No federal pride!” Miran said. She found herself half wishing Stanley was there though she couldn’t discern why.
“We’ll have plenty of time yet to take in the sights,” Soren said. We’ll be in Bordeaux near a week to start. Maybe longer depending on what the matriarch has to say about it.”
“Some leave would be nice,” Miran said, “But it’s the summit we’re here for. Depends on what Matriarch Lathe has to say before I decide one way or another about extending our stay.”
Miran had only met the Matriarch of Bordeaux’s Folly once before, at a similar gathering on the planet Marr. Their meeting then had been brief, though Miran had regarded Matriarch Brenna Lathe as gracious and a keen judge of character. That time, however, hadn’t been under such ominous circumstances.
Miran’s shuttle, The Thought That Was, pushed off from the Dream’s spot in stationary orbit with a sudden but slight jolt. The pilot, whose name escaped Miran, gave her a nod that their journey was underway. The Thought’s viewscreen peeled back to reveal a vast world of limitless ocean not far beneath, dotted by rolling ashen clouds and thick storm fronts. Several atmospheric craft broke off from a carrier ship a few kilometres ahead of them as they let loose kilometre-long, colourful streamers that danced in their wake. These craft far outmanoeuvred Miran’s own in atmosphere and were soon circling back to spiral around The Thought as it held it’s trajectory arcing toward the planet of Bordeaux’s Folly.
“Why do they call it Bordeaux’s Folly?” Bullman asked.
“Something about a shipwreck and a man that really liked his wine. Far as I recall,” Soren said.
“Seems kind of off-putting to name a whole planet after a tragedy, no?” Wellei said though Miran thought she had a point.
“Folks are sideways to us this far out on the rim of The Quarter. Stories can go a long way to keep us grounded, however strange they may be,” Miran offered.
“Will you all please keep it down,” Ha said, who had been silently tapping away on his terminal coordinating the upcoming spectacle.
“Are we ready to head in?” Miran asked him.
“Yes, yes, the pilot should already have the course laid in,” Ha snapped.
“Winds are fair, and we’re sailing true, matriarch,” the pilot confirmed. “Just sit back and watch the show.”
Over the misty horizon, the beginnings of a craggy and scarred landmass leapt out of the sea. First, there was nothing but barren, scorched rock. As the craft glided effortlessly forward, patches of trees sprung out of the ground. They were small at first, then quickly climbing to reach twenty storeys in height, their upper stalks waving in harsh winds. In the distance on either side of them, Miran could spot dozens of active wildfires consuming large swaths of land as they rolled over hillsides. Shire-sized chunks of the forest vanished behind the fires as soot and dust tore into the stratosphere above them. The pilot banked slightly to avoid a plume of smoke, sailing them directly over an active blaze.
“This here’s a feisty one,” the pilot said. “Best we keep our distance.” Miran agreed, not wanting to end up a wildfire’s afternoon snack.
Coming up on a mountain range that stretched to both ends of the horizon and what Miran’s terminal told her averaged six kilometres tall, the pilot arced them up and over, passing from the badlands of Bordeaux’s wild forests and into a wide-open valley, the planet’s only safe zone to humanity.
As they cleared the snow-capped peaks of the mountain range, Miran found herself looking out onto a wide expanse of rolling grasslands, bisected by countless shimmering rivers, streams and canals. Dozens of villages and farmsteads made up of archaic wooden houses and barns passed beneath them. Herds of cattle of all types and breeds and a few angry farmers galloped out of the way as they tried to escape the thunderous approach of her escort.
Miran could make out clusters of townsfolk waving to her procession as the first of her accompanying aircraft surged ahead of her. Of the twelve craft that accompanied her shuttle, nine streaked ahead, forming a spear out in front before breaking off to form a twirling spiral. Suddenly, just as they neared the valley’s only city, Risen, the aircraft burst out and away in all directions, cycling through formation after formation in rapid exquisite succession.
It was then that the real sky parade began. The craft moved on ahead, painting the skies over the city with their colourful streamers to an uproar of fanfare from the surface. The Thought moved deliberately ahead, flying through erupting fields of fireworks tossed down from the flock in orbit. Behind her shuttle, a long procession of approaching craft ferried her citizens, some of them landing in airfields at the edges of Risen’s city limits.
As they neared the city’s outer edge, Miran could make out endless streets and alleyways cut through massive industrial complexes. On the top of these buildings, gardens, parks and farmland were cultivated, maximising the city’s arable land within the valley.
After the industrial districts, housing structures began dotting the landscape; themselves painted in more parkland. The canals here were wider, serving as shipping corridors between the city’s many districts.
“Gods, it’s huge,” Soren awed.
Up ahead, a monolithic spire erupted out of Risen’s core district. The Spire, itself hundreds of storeys in height, anchored a cable extending far past the planet’s stratosphere that served as a space elevator. Nearly a quarter way up the monolith, Miran could make out several levels of landing platforms, one of which her shuttle was fast approaching.
“Bringing her in to land. Touchdown in thirty,” the pilot said.
“Thank you, Harold,” Miran said, finally remembering the man’s name.
As the shuttle lowered itself to the platform, a congregation of similarly gaudily dressed individuals stepped forward. Miran turned to see her companions. Soren and Bullman were attentive, ready to get on the move. Wellei, as always, was ignorant of what was going on around her. Her face was buried in her terminal. Ha was already unbuckling, eager to enact the next step in his preparations.
“Can I get a round of applause for Lawson Ha? His carefully choreographed aircraft display went off without a hitch!” Miran applauded. The rest of the team clapped and hooted. Ha approved, his face brimming with pride.
“And another round for our pilot, for delivering us to Bordeaux’s Folly safely and unburnt!” Soren said as the team stomped their boots in revelry.
The pilot nodded with a grin and slammed the door release in response. The Thought That Was’ rear doors hissed open as the shuttle’s carefully balanced atmosphere mixed with the planetary air outside. Miran raised her nose, taking in the exotic aromas as they flooded in.
“This high up and I can still smell the curry carts!” Soren said, his lips smacking.
“You’ll get a chance to visit them later,” Miran assured. “First stop is greeting our hosts.”
Miran took the lead, stepping down The Thought’s ramp. The rest of her crew hastily followed, Ha stepping quickly past her, ignorant of ceremony. In his infatuation with his own mission, Ha stepped right past the head of their host, The Matriarch of Bordeaux herself; Brenna Lathe. Miran’s eyes met hers and they shared a mutual smirk.
“Greetings and welcome to Bordeaux’s Folly!” Matriarch Lathe said in abject ceremony. “We embrace you as friends from afar, as distant kin. Just know that so long as you are within the walls of this, our humble valley, that you may consider yourselves home.”
“Pleasure to be here amongst family,” Miran said, returning the formality. “Hail federation, hail the Herd!”
“Hail the Matriarchs! Hail the Herd!,” everyone else in attendance howled in harmony. It was readily apparent to Miran that the events taking place on this landing platform were simultaneously being broadcast throughout the whole of Risen. Seconds later, the city echoed their call;
“Hail the Matriarchs! Hail the Herd!”
Miran felt a rush of kinship emanate through her. Nowhere else in the quarter was such a feeling possible, a feeling of belonging to such rampant unity. She felt as though the hearts of each and every citizen of the federation were intertwined at that moment, beating in shared sympathy.
Matriarch Lathe extended her arms, wrapping them around Miran in a motherly warmth. The woman was easily twenty years her senior, wrinkles and liver spots mottling her face. Her auburn hair was loosely curled and tied back and woven with a dozen or so wooden charms. Miran ended the embrace and took in the woman’s affable grin. It had been a long time since she had received a greeting like this, most people seeing her as some sort of celebrity, an untouchable treasure meant to be admired from afar.
“Good to see you, Miran-Yi,” Brenna said. “You can relax now. Cameras are off.”
“It’s been ages,” Miran said.
“It sure has. We will have to catch up,” Brenna said.
“We should have more than enough time for that,” Miran said.
“We sure do. Just you wait, you’ll be sick of me by the end of your stay here,” Brenna chuckled.
Miran laughed; “Hardly possible, old friend.”
“Come, come. You must be tired from your long journey,” Brenna said, notably unfamiliar with flock life.
“Our lives are aboard the flock, Matriarch. Hard to feel homesick when you bring it everywhere with you.”
“In that, you must be right. What I wouldn’t give to have spent some years aboard a flock such as yours. I had a chance to leave Bordeaux once in my youth to take up with Idle Flock if memory serves. I let that chance pass by, and I’ve never forgotten it.”
“There’s always space aboard The Cattleheart,” Miran offered.
“Then I would have to take your job,” Brenna quipped. Miran laughed at this. Behind her, she could sense her companions’ fatigue.
“Shall we?” Miran asked.
“We shall,” Brenna said, leading the way inside. Off the landing platform, they entered into one of The Spire’s most opulently dressed halls. Carpet runners ran the length of the corridor made of a woven material Miran couldn’t quite place. Up the walls, a similar, more refined material was woven into fantastic tapestries. As their procession advanced, Miran realised that the hung tapestries depicted several of the most renowned stories beginning with the Fall of Old Earth, to the exodus of humankind, to the founding of the flocks and their joining The Federation, and to the founding of Bordeaux itself.
“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Brenna said, noticing Miran’s enthrallment.
“They are,” Miran agreed. “If I may ask, what are they made of?”
“Enik fibre from the woods outside the valley. A versatile material, though so very flammable. These hangings had to be treated to prevent them from casually bursting into flame. It’s one of our chief exports here.”
Miran finished taking in the tapestries, noticing her effect on the rest of the procession. Looking back, she and Brenna’s companions dominated the hall, forming a clump of forty individuals, themselves flanked by dozens of court servants. It wasn’t until Matriarch Lathe spoke again that Miran realised how far ahead of the group the woman had gotten.
Miran stepped to meet her as the procession poured out into a wide central hall lined by white marble and flanked by dozens of concentric rows of pews. Above them, similarly arcing pews extended several levels upwards, nearing the forty-foot ceiling above.
“You must have questions, and I answers,” Brenna said at last. “As for the festivities, Mister Ha?”
Lawson Ha stood to attention, pulling his face away from his terminal.
“If you would please follow Rissa Nessanui. She is my equivalent to your status and will be working with you in preparation for the upcoming festivities.” Brenna said, motioning for a young olive-skinned woman. Ha followed her dutifully, not bothering to wave farewell to Miran or any of his compatriots.
The rest of her attendants disbanded as well, leaving her, Miran and Miran’s companions alone in the cavernous hall.
Miran agreed. She, herself, had details to discuss surrounding the disappearances aboard her flock, the erroneous bio-readings, and still had little clue as to why the summit was called.
“Your companions will find quarters have been made for them within The Spire. The summit is set to take place at the culmination of the Parade festivities, at this week’s close,” said Brenna, “As for you, my esteemed equal, you and I have something we must discuss ahead of the summit. Meet me for dinner, will you?” Miran nodded at this, eager to discuss matters openly with another soul. With that, Matriarch Lathe departed.
After spending the rest of the day in a bath that went cold several times, obsessing over a copy of the intruder’s bioscan and the secrecy surrounding the upcoming summit, Miran met the other matriarch in an upper-level of The Spire. It was an open suite, modest compared to the estate levels of Miran’s own flagship, which Miran inherited from her self-indulgent predecessor. Brenna’s suite was functional, with only a handful of carefully picked pieces of handmade furniture thoughtfully placed over two thousand square feet. At one end, curtains were drawn concealing the matriarch’s open chambers.
Miran was impressed by the design, aspects of which she thought she might just adopt when she eventually got around to updating her own estate.
“Welcome, Miran. Do come in,” Brenna said from one far-flung end of the apartment. Brenna’s steward, who had greeted Miran upon her arrival, showed her over to the living space where the matriarch sat in one wide armchair opposite another.
“I thought we might keep it less formal this evening if that suits you?” Brenna said, pouring her a large glass of wine. Miran nodded her approval and accepted the glass.
“It’s what we’re known for, wine. Though surprisingly, not a drop is grown here.” Brenna said.
“No?” Miran humoured her between sips.
“It’s in the name, but our real pride is in enik tuber.” Brenna offered her a plate containing a smattering of differently seasoned potato-like wedges. “Here, try one.”
Miran couldn’t refuse, taking a bite.
“The enikroot has many medicinal properties. I suppose I just like the taste,” said Brenna.
In that, Miran could not agree. Repulsed by the bitterness of the treat, she spat it out into her glass.
“An acquired taste, surely,” Brenna said, already pouring her a replacement.
Miran laughed. “Warn me next time and I’ll have a bucket ready.”
Brenna snorted, “and take all the fun out of it?”
The two chuckled back and forth, only interrupted by the steward’s arrival with a waiter's tray carrying an assortment of h’orderves.
“Let’s see here,” Brenna said, sitting up in her seat to get a better look at the plates. “This one here is lamb tagine. This one is a sunflower spread that pairs well with everything. Oh, and this right here is native to this world alone. It’s my favourite by far. I call it hatak confit.”
Brenna enthusiastically held up the dish of a sea creature Miran couldn’t recognize. “All of these should be palatable, unlike the enikroot. I promise only to play you for a fool once.”
Miran smiled, feeling a little reassured. Brenna’s steward went ahead, plating bite-size samples of each of the various dishes. Inhaling each of the morsels, Miran couldn’t help but growl with approval. Brenna leaned back in her chair, savouring each bite, engrossed with her culinary selections.
“Now,” Brenna said, “I suppose you would like to know why you’re here.”
“I was wondering how many more courses would come out before you were going to ask,” Miran replied after downing the last of her wine. “Matter of fact, I have some tales of my own to tell.”
“Oh, don’t you worry, that was just the first course of many,” assured Brenna, directing her steward to retrieve the next set of treats.
“If you’ll indulge an old woman,” she said, “the reason you’re here – why we’re all here – is to discuss a distant threat that has recently resurfaced.”
A threat? Miran thought, could this all be related? Miran urged her to continue.
“You see, I have recently come across a bit of information regarding the far side of our far-flung federation. A runner’s craft exiting riftspace fortuitously nearby our little backwater of a world through some chance of physics I dare not claim to wrap my head around... He brought us and us alone this report before succumbing to what appeared to be several weeks of malnourishment,” Brenna said as she flicked something from her terminal over to Miran’s.
Miran opened the report, combing through it.
“I’ll give you a moment,” said Brenna, popping open a fresh bottle of sauvignon.
