With a powerful forward stroke, Adea broke the water’s surface, the strength of her upper body and the bobbing motions of her lower body and legs propelled her forward several metres, before repeating the motion. She alternated between looking straight down at the pool’s floor and moving her head sideways to draw breaths. Swimming was as close to a safe space Adea could come. It was all about technique, every move of a limb, positioning of the parts of her body that carried buoyancy perfectly to off-set drift to the surface, minimising loss of forward momentum; it required complete focus to such an extent that her entire world became just the expanse of water right in front of her, the limits of her extent of imagination the pool’s edge. Adea was able to catch her breath mentally when going full tilt in the water, the physical exertion forcing her train of thoughts down the path of pure banality of athletic perfection and the simple act of breathing correctly. The pool in the basement of Ars Gallante House was not the same length as a competition-sized pool, which would have been ridiculous even for a noble family as affluent as the Carlisles-St.Eirons, but at the same time the pool was not chlorinated, the water through which Adea aggressively crawled free-style through was actually of drinking quality. That did mean that she had to use slightly more energy to swim along the perfect depth underneath the pool’s surface, since there was next to no salinization, but at the same time she didn’t have to wear goggles to avoid the stinging sensation that chlorine had upon human eyes. Nothing of this actually sped through Adea’s mind as her outstretched left arm touched the far side; it was all intrinsic background information which she didn’t really process actively.

Hands firmly placed on the pool’s edge, she drew her head up and refilled her lungs with air and removed the swimming cap that contained her long red hair. She felt sluggish, her internal timer recognising that she was well below her personal best on this modest distance. Frustration bubbling to her mental surface now that she was free of the liberating sensation of the water, she slammed a fist into the side of the pool, gnawing her teeth in frustration.

“Ahem.” The soft sound was both trying to be polite while also grabbing her attention, and Adea looking up into the sea-green eyes of her personal lady’s maid, Charlotte Busby, wearing the onyx and ruby livery of the servants employed by the Sélincourts.

“My Lady Adea,” the maid said while curtsying slightly, “you have a few guests who would like to repair upon you.”

Adea liked Charlotte, the slightly older maid was almost like a sister to Adea, serving as her lady’s maid for the past five years and for the most part the two enjoyed a very jovial and non-formal relationship together. That is, when they were alone; when some third person appeared, Charlotte slipped into a very formal and subservient persona that Adea frankly disliked, but she understood that the maid had her professional reputation to consider and as such refrained from admonishing her for it. For despite the egalitarianism of modern Auroran society, it was still considered very bad form for servants to become too familiar with their employers and charges. And “charge” was indeed what Adea was in Charlotte’s eyes, for unbeknownst to Adea, Charlotte considered Adea like her naïve little sister that had to be protected from the real world, and whenever Adea was out on the town, Charlotte fretted more than Lady Iphigenia did.

Adea frowned and threw the swimming cap in Charlotte’s general direction, standing as she was in the pool room’s doorway. The lady’s maid didn’t bat an eyebrow.

“I’ll tell them to come on down then,” she simply said and disappeared, and Adea groaned loudly before hoisting herself up onto the pool’s side. Grabbing a towel from a rack, she patted her body and swimsuit down before starting to wring water out of her long hair, just as her guests arrived. Her irritation at being disturbed eased somewhat as she was greeted with Sandy’s wide grin, and the polite smile and nod from Nimue Hastings.

“Nimue, Sandy,” Adea said with a reciprocal grin of her own, “I didn’t know you were coming over, or I would have made myself more presentable.”

Tying her towel around her hair, she gestured to her tight black swimsuit, the type used in competitions, and Nimue chuckled.

“Its fine, you couldn’t have known. I only wanted to drop on by to say goodbye for now. The university semester is just around the corner, so I’ll be heading back to Nova Caledonia and King’s Shore University to finish my biology degree. Mama splashed out, and got me a ticket for the passage on the luxury liner Kleophis, which is departing tomorrow evening.”

“Oh,” Sandy piped up, “I hear that the Kleophis has a three-deck open food court and a cat café. I’m kind of jealous now.” She turned to Adea.

“And the reason why I’m here is that I was bored, and figured I’d spend one of the last days of freedom before becoming veritably chained to the toilsome desk of erudition by visiting my best friend.”

Adea made a mock curtsy and flourished her arms outwards.

“Your mere presence honours me, Honourable Miss Barham, I am hardly worthy of the lofty attention given me. Turning serious for a second, if you would give me a few moments to get dressed, we can move to a more suitable locale for polite conversation. Charlotte?”

The maid was nowhere to be seen, but Adea knew she hovered around somewhere close if she was summoned, and the liveried servant appeared after the briefest of moments.

“Yes, My Lady?”

Adea smiled knowingly, unwrapping her towel as she spoke.

“Can you please direct Miss Barham and Lady Nimue to the tea salon while I make myself presentable? And could you ask Mrs Orlova to whip up some tea and an assortment of cakes from the pantry?”

Charlotte bowed, made a polite request for the two girls to follow her, leaving Adea to shower and get changed in the small locker room adjoining the pool. Sandy and a few other childhood friends had often in the past come to Ars Gallante House for the explicit purpose of playing around in the pool, usually as the energetic highlight of sleepover parties. As Adea rapidly lathered herself in soap, letting the hot water rinse away the tepid pool water and her sweat, she was overcome with a pang of nostalgia. Those days seemed so long ago, feeling almost like a different time. A simpler, easier time. She quickly got dressed back into her black trousers and salmon silk shirt, and headed up to join her friends.

Nimue and Sandy had not wasted any time getting comfortable in the second floor tea salon, the same one with the neü-Persian carpets and upholstered chaise lounges and chairs that served as an excellent window to observe the street below, a real look-out post to watch the coming and going of the well-off in one of the poshest part of Cordelia. Sandy was languidly virtually draped in one of the chaise lounges, a plate of macrons, éclairs, and bite-sized fruit tarts balancing on her chest, while Nimue was sitting in a chair by the large windows, sipping Sakura Sencha whilst absently watching the activity below. Adea could only smile as she noticed the tall tiered stand on one of the small serving tables was robbed of about half the cakes it should be carrying, before going over to it and grabbing a custard tart. A cup of unsweetened Assam tea with a drop of cream in it had already been poured for her, no doubt the work of Charlotte; Adea was very particular with her teas. The Sakura Sencha was perfect for the likes of Nimue, who really didn’t enjoy sweet flavours all that much, so the natural mild sweetness of the Sakura was perfect for her, while Alexandra was primarily a coffee-drinker, so she abstained from tea altogether unless participation in drinking “dried grass moistness” as she called it, was mandatory.

“Why does your kitchen staff always have the most amazing cakes just lying around at all times?” Sandy mused between bites of éclair. “You don’t even eat empty calories, you’re a bloody high-level student athlete. Sugar is completely anathema to your draconian diet.”

“She does drink though,” Nimue offered from her little perch, “at times more than advisable.”

“Oi!” Adea protested after a sip of tea. “If you two are here just to air insults at your hostess, I would kindly suggest you find a different venue, for I am not having that shit.”

“Speaking of ‘hostess’…” Sandy put the plate down on the chaise lounge as she sat up in a more normal position, “where are Lady Darkmoor and Lord Alistair for that matter? I expected that at least one of them would have dropped by to say hello. Doubly curious since Parliament is still not completely formed after the elections.”

Sandy immediately regretted asking the question, since she could veritably see Adea’s expression darken and the tall redhead put her plate of sweets back onto the serving table.

“Papa is going away, probably for a long time. Same with Mama, since she lost her seat in the Lords.”

Nimue and Sandy exchanged worried looks at each other before turning back to Adea.

“What do you mean with ‘going away’?” Nimue pressed mildly, putting her teacup back onto the saucer with a muted clink. Adea walked over to one of the windows, leaned against the sill and crossed her arms.

“Papa got home yesterday after a meeting at the Admiralty. The first thing he did was throw his cap onto the floor and stomp on it, loudly cursing and shouting. The servants immediately made themselves scarce, and even Lady Spencer made the decision that right now lying low was the better option, hid herself away in the library. He raged on in one of the drawing rooms for the better part of an hour before Mama checked in on him. Turns out he’s to assume command of Reserve Fleet in Amaranth orbit, with five years being the outside estimate of his station length.”

“Oh Adea…” Nimue put her hand to her mouth, having done the maths in her head quickly.

“Yeah…” Her tone was wistful now, the crossed arms seeming to more caress her chest than protect it. “Papa said something similar after Mama had calmed him down. I was listening in the whole time from the other side of the door. He said he’ll finally be coming home when I am finished at King William’s and shipping out. And if Donegal’s plan is carried out to the letter, I might be shipped to Reserve as he’s shipping out.”

Sandy rose and walked over to Adea, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“We’re all fully aware that we literally have centuries ahead of us, but not having your father around during these very formative years is so tough, especially when you’re going to be enrolling into the naval academy. Your admiral father should be there to help you through it.”

“It gets better,” Adea said sarcastically, “because after the general elections, and the shift in power balance in the Commons has led to Lady Iphigenia MP, the Countess Darkmoor once again becoming Captain Lady Iphigenia, the Countess Darkmoor RN. She lost her seat to the Baron of Isdale, and as such started to lobby Admiralty for a command, unbeknownst of what Donegal was planning for Papa. So she got the official letter to assume command and control of the battlecruiser HMS Erato four days ago. Erato is slated for deployment in the bloody Lucidia Pocket in a month’s time.”

No one said anything for a few pregnant moments. The Lucidia Pocket was a collection of systems that the Royal Union and the Kingdom of Aurora in particular was responsible for safeguarding, despite the fact that they lay about seven-hundred light years away from Aurora itself. And as the name suggested, it was a “pocket” that was surrounded by the Independent Systems Alliance to the “north” and “west”, the Lorelei Special Administrative Region to the “north-east”, and the Hydran Co-Prosperity League to the “east”. To the “south” was the vast neutral expanse of unaligned settler colonies known as the Pannonia Region, which had barely ten million inhabitants spread across nineteen planets. The planet of Lucidia was infamous for its internecine in-fighting, with racial tension occasionally bubbling to the surface violently. Aurora could not in good faith abandon the Lucidians to develop a democratic and well-structured society on their own (they had tried, twice), and was forced to administer the planet and the surrounding systems to keep order. This was often decried both abroad and nationally as blatant imperialism, and to a certain extent it was, and the official policy of the Royalists and Social Liberals was the same flimsy argument that the European powers of Earth of old had used; it was for the betterment of the people who lived there, the main difference between those same-sounding statements a millennia apart being that the Aurorans really didn’t want to remain in Lucidia, but they felt they had a moral responsibility to avoid outright genocide on a planet that they had become all too well acquainted with over the past century. But posting to Lucidia Station or the command of Defence Forces Lucidia was the most dreaded postings in the Royal Navy, Royal Marines, and Royal Army. This was due to a number of factors, not limited to distance to travel (close to a month in the Light Way with regular stops), unfriendliness of the local population, lack of amenities both in orbit and on ground, poor lines of supply from home, and knowing you were surrounded on all sides by people who really didn’t like Aurorans. Travel was further complicated by having to go through the Lorelei Special Administrative Region, which was technically a demilitarised zone, but which over the past decade had more or less become another sector under ISA control, and the Alliance Space Navy was starting to become pushy regarding Royal Union military tonnage allowed to traverse at once.

“So yeah,” Adea broke the silence by half-saying, half-sighing, “I won’t have my admiral father nor my captain mother to mentor me as I go through the most prestigious and elite naval academy in the known galaxy. And now that the semester is starting, even Lady Spencer is leaving for King William’s, leaving the house completely empty apart from me. Mama’s already made arrangements for most of the staff and servants to go on fully paid furlough; there simply won’t be anything for them all to do with just me here, even if I decide to host dinners every night.”

“You know if I hadn’t already paid for my lodgings in Vermillion Hall…” Sandy replied, still stroking Adea’s shoulder in an attempt to comfort her friend, who she had to admit she at times forgot was four years younger than her since she was both taller and carried herself in a very mature manner most of the time due to her aristocratic upbringing.

“Oh, I don’t think that would have been a good idea,” Nimue offered, now also risen and stood at a companionable distance, “you’d grow sick of each other within the space of two weeks. Just think of long Alexandra is in the shower, if you had to wait for her to finish, you’d be forced to shower in cold water.”

“That rumour,” Sandy replied in a faux-affronted tone, “is more than a little exaggerated. I shower for no more than thirty minutes, maximum.”

“My god, girl,” Adea quipped, “how do you have any skin left at all? All that warm water and soaps are going to strip every millimetre of natural protective fat in your skin.”

“Superior genes,” Sandy huffed, going back to the tray for another macron, “simple as that. I doubt an inbred aristo such as yourself would be able to grasp such an elusive concept.”

“Ahem.” Nimue cleared her throat and Sandy laughed.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot I was sharing the room with two inbred aristos. My apologies, Lady Nimue, I will remember to include you in my insults on the next occasion.”

“You’re such an idiot,” Adea said through her sudden grin, going back for her teacup. “And that’s why I not only stand your presence, but actually love you, you little bundle of happiness.”

Alexandra beamed, smiling widely mid-chew of a lemon macron, yellow bits stuck between her usually pristinely white teeth.

“I aim to please. And if you believe for one moment you think you’re going to be lonely this next year, you have another thing coming. I’ll be so on top of you that you’ll develop an allergy.”

“Quite right,” Nimue said a tone that was very uncharacteristically cheerful, “I may be scores of light years away, but messages travel fast through the Light Way and the galactic web. Whenever you feel the need, know that you can just send me an e-letter, and the next morning a reply will be in your inbox.”

Adea’s throat tightened and she felt her eyes stinging. Quickly turning to look out the window to hide her emotions, she sipped her tea.

“I wonder,” she mused disarmingly, “if Horace Sciacca, Evelyn Delafontaine, Georgiana Assiotis-Percy, and the rest of the usual criminals are available for a little shindig tonight.”

She turned and smiled at Nimue.

“After all, we need to throw you a little going-away party. And Horace seemed very enamoured with you at New Forest’s Ball.”

As Sandy and Adea almost howled with laughter at how quickly Nimue’s face took on almost the same colour as her freckles, Charlotte Busby (standing on the other side of the tea salon doors) fished out her handcom and typed a note to check the pantry’s alcohol selection and to send a footman to a nearby pharmacy to buy detoxification pills for the inevitable hangover of her noble mistress tomorrow.

Artemisia sat up in her hospital bed, adjusting the uncomfortable cut of her patient’s gown. At least she had been given the privilege of a private room with a view over central Raleigh; her most honourable duke father didn’t skimp on expenses, that was for sure. She had never learned how much she had actually cost, but comments made by Michael de Vere while he was pummelling her with a cane, belt, fire iron or anything close enough that might serve as a weapon, suggested he had invested a significant part of his already significant fortune in paying black market Earth cloners to craft her. By the laws of the Auroran revised constitution, Artemisia’s entire existence was illegal; the ordering of clones was punishable by law with up to fifty years in prison if a case could be proven in court. Problem was, the Duke of Trewellynshire had been extremely adept at hiding his financial and physical trails, something his lawyers had proven time and time again during hearings in local and regional courts on Angevin. Everyone knew there was no chance Artemisia was a natural child of Michael, due to both the timing of her birth and to the fact she looked absolutely nothing like her supposed father.

She watched a skycar swoosh past the hospital window and sighed deeply. Feeling the mental itch, she rolled up her gown sleeves and admired the work the scummy surgeon had done. Had it not been on her father’s orders to cover up the scars he inflicted on her, she would have admired the good doctor for his good work. There was no indication left of the scars Michael de Vere had left on her arms the night of the Duchess of New Forest’s Ball. He had been especially furious that night, as she had re-entered the ballroom arm-in-arm with none other than the daughter of Lord Sélincourt and Lady Darkmoor, not only politically opponents but people the Duke considered personal enemies. He had swapped the cane for a blunt knife that night. The other scars and welts had been accumulated over the two months since. Artemisia actually shuddered with the realisation she had lost account over the times her “father” had physically assaulted her over the course of the past few years. He hadn’t always been like this.

In the beginning, as far as Artemisia could remember, he had been a loving and devoted father. She especially remembered her fifth birthday (enhanced memory was part of the package Duke Trewellynshire had paid for) when she had been given an honest-to-God Norwegian Fjord Horse foal from Earth, whom she had named “Bernie” and had loved unconditionally. That was until the fateful day when she had bad-mouthed the Duke of Calvert’s Land at a tea party in the Angevin capital of Aldney. She had been twelve at the time, only repeating what she had overheard her father talking about with other Conservative peers. It had evidently been enough of a loss of face for the Duke that he immediately afterwards went back to their estates and had the stable master put the horse down. With Artemisia as a witness. That was the day Artemisia really understood how small a man her “father” was, one completely obsessed with his standing amongst the nobility, his perception in the media, and how much of a perfect exterior he was able to protrude. In the interest of saving herself from repeated beatings and berating, she had to toe the line as well, since she was by proxy the senior female member of the de Vere dynasty. She had to welcome and humour guests during dinners and gatherings, be a cute and welcoming face to the media whenever Michael didn’t feel like facing the cameras and drones, and generally be the very best example of noble progeny that the Kingdom had ever seen. All of that to avoid getting physically abused. That had been going on for seven years now, with her getting sent to the same clinic in Raleigh, Arcadia on Aurora every four months or so to get regenerative surgery to cover up his maliciously abusive tracks.

“I wish I could just fade away into nothing…”

Artemisia didn’t immediately recognise the voice as her own, but she was the only one in the hospital room, so she was the only logical culprit. Her own line of deduction produced a muted chuckle. Looking for anything that could distract her from her current poor mood, her eyes landed on a magazine adorned with a very clearly advert-oriented front page featuring a male and female officer dressed in what Artemisia immediately recognised as a fanciful artist’s rending of a Royal Navy’s Mess Dress uniform. The background was a starspace backdrop of equally fanciful and slightly strangely shaped illustrations of Royal Navy warships; the artist had gotten the overall shape right, but not even close to correctly depicting how long and thin the hull was. Nevertheless, she was enamoured by the romantically phrased advert slogan: “Be Proud, Conquer the Galaxy”.

Under her smile, she could only assume that the artist behind the poster had intended for the meaning of the word “conquer” to mean “remain victorious”, for the Royal Navy and the Kingdom of Aurora didn’t really undertake any offensive actions that resulted in capture of territory. The last time that had happened was during the war with the Hydran Co-Prosperity League in 2610-11, during which the systems of Nebuchadnezzar and Cyrene had been ceded to the Royal Union, more than two-hundred and sixty years ago. Still, the image was evocative, inspiring a sense of patriotism Artemisia wasn’t aware that she had. And then it hit her.

How else to gain a distance from her “father” by socially acceptable means? Sure, she had the option of running away to a foreign nation, going on an extended sabbatical, or some other inane excuse. But instead, Artemisia kicked herself mentally for not considering the military route earlier. Her best friend Amelia Euxina had done it six years prior, so why not her as well? It would require four years at King William Academy following this last year at QMMU, but it meant separation from her “father” and a convenient excuse from attending social events at Verius House. In fact, the more Artemisia thought about it, the more it made absolute sense.

“Erin,” she said out loud, still holding the magazine, calling for her lady’s companion, “would you awfully mind giving me my handcom and my purse. I have a few very important life decisions to make.”

She rubbed the upper part of her arms again, more in phantom pain than anything else, before fixing her eyes on the magazine.

“Yes, this is the way I will make my own story.”

If only she’d have known at the time how cognizant that statement had been…